He crossed the Forum without stopping and, in his course,
mounted the Hill of Mars. Finally he came to one of the greatest
houses of the patrician section of the city. His cries and shouts
filled the house:
"Alas, alas!" he cried.
A lady hastened to him. She was the mistress of the house, the famous
Cornelia Graccha.
"What news do you bring?" she asked.
"Alas, alas," repeated the slave, "in the battle down there in Umbria,
two of your sons have been killed."
"Fool," was the reply, "I do not ask that. Have the Barbarians been
conquered?"
"They have, Cornelia."
"Then what matters the death of my sons if my country is victorious!"
Those wonderful words have been handed down from generation to
generation as a symbol of what ancient Rome was. Those words thousands
of French women have uttered for the last four years, and they still
utter them today. Other voices answer them. They rise from the
trenches, and they say:
"Be without fear, women of France. For you we will fight to
our last gasp, we will shed our last drop of blood. Know
that if for months we have held our heads below the level of
the muddy trench and offered our breasts to death, it is
that you may be freed from the wild beasts that have burst
forth from the German forests.
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