stand his loneliness.
He was still at his German prison-camp, but expecting every day to go
to Switzerland. He said he could get back to England or South Africa,
if he wanted, for they were clear that he could never be a combatant
again; but he thought he had better stay in Switzerland, for he would
be unhappy in England with all his friends fighting. As usual he made
no complaints, and seemed to be very grateful for his small mercies.
There was a doctor who was kind to him, and some good fellows among the
prisoners.

But Peter's letter was made up chiefly of reflection. He had always
been a bit of a philosopher, and now, in his isolation, he had taken to
thinking hard, and poured out the results to me on pages of thin paper
in his clumsy handwriting. I could read between the lines that he was
having a stiff fight with himself. He was trying to keep his courage
going in face of the bitterest trial he could be called on to face--a
crippled old age. He had always known a good deal about the Bible, and
that and the _Pilgrim's Progress_ were his chief aids in reflection.
Both he took quite literally, as if they were newspaper reports of
actual recent events.

He mentioned that after much consideration he had reached the
conclusion that the three greatest men he had ever heard of or met were
Mr Valiant-for-Truth, the Apostle Paul, and a certain Billy Strang who
had been with him in Mashonaland in '92. Billy I knew all about; he had
been Peter's hero and leader till a lion got him in the Blaauwberg.
Peter preferred Valiant-for-Truth to Mr Greatheart, I think, because of
his superior truculence, for, being very gentle himself, he loved a
bold speaker. After that he dropped into a vein of self-examination. He
regretted that he fell far short of any of the three. He thought that
he might with luck resemble Mr Standfast, for like him he had not much
trouble in keeping wakeful, and was also as 'poor as a howler', and
didn't care for women. He only hoped that he could imitate him in
making a good end.

Then followed some remarks of Peter's on courage, which came to me in
that London room as if spoken by his living voice. I have never known
anyone so brave, so brave by instinct, or anyone who hated so much to
be told so. It was almost the only thing that could make him angry. All
his life he had been facing death, and to take risks seemed to him as
natural as to get up in the morning and eat his breakfast. But he had
started out