In just five minutes she would settle the universal conflict.
"Defend yourself, Boche," she would shriek, standing at guard as in her childhood she had seen the peons doing on the ranch.
And with a knife-thrust above and below, she would pierce his imperial vitals.

Immediately there resounded in her imagination, shouts of joy, the gigantic sigh of millions of women freed at last from the bloody nightmare--thanks to her playing the role of Judith or Charlotte Corday, or a blend of all the heroic women who had killed for the common weal.
Her savage fury made her continue her imaginary slaughter, dagger in hand.

Second stroke!--the Crown Prince rolling to one side and his head to the other.

A rain of dagger thrusts!--all the invincible generals of whom her aunt had been boasting fleeing with their insides in their hands--and bringing up the rear, that fawning lackey who wished to receive the same things as those of highest rank--the uncle from Berlin.
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