o soft kisses sucked in the air, but nothing struck me. This could not
endure. I must get out of the cutting--that damnable corridor. I
scrambled up the bank. The earth sprang up beside me, and something
touched my hand, but outside the cutting was a tiny depression. I
crouched in this, struggling to get my wind. On the other side of the
railway a horseman galloped up, shouting to me and waving his hand. He
was scarcely forty yards off. With a rifle I could have killed him
easily. I knew nothing of white flags, and the bullets had made me
savage. I reached down for my Mauser pistol. 'This one at least,' I
said, and indeed it was a certainty; but alas! I had left the weapon in
the cab of the engine in order to be free to work at the wreckage. What
then? There was a wire fence between me and the horseman. Should I
continue to fly? The idea of another shot at such a short range decided
me. Death stood before me, grim sullen Death without his light-hearted
companion, Chance. So I held up my hand, and like Mr. Jorrocks's foxes,
cried 'Capivy.' Then I was herded with the other prisoners in a
miserable group, and about the same time I noticed that my hand was
bleeding, and it began to pour with rain.

Two days before I had written to an officer in high command at home,
whose friendship I have the honour to enjoy: 'There has been a great
deal too much surrendering in this war, and I hope people who do so will
not be encouraged.' Fate had intervened, yet though her tone was full of
irony she seemed to say, as I think Ruskin once said, 'It matters very
little whether your judgments of people are true or untrue, and very
much whether they are kind or unkind,' and repeating that I will make an
end.

CHAPTER VIII

PRISONERS OF WAR

Pretoria: November 24, 1899.

The position of a prisoner of war is painful and humiliating. A man
tries his best to kill another, and finding that he cannot succeed asks
his enemy for mercy. The laws of war demand that this should be
accorded, but it is impossible not to feel a sense of humbling
obligation to the captor from whose hand we take our lives. All military
pride, all independence of spirit must be put aside. These may be
carried to the grave, but not into captivity. We must prepare ourselves
to submit, to obey, to endure. Certain things--sufficient food and water
and protection during good behaviour--the victor must supply or be a
savage, but beyond these all else is favour. Favou