Hardly the type of man for a hero!  And yet I do not know.  Perhaps he fought harder than many a man who conquers.  In the world’s courts, we are compelled to judge on circumstantial evidence only, and the chief witness, the man’s soul, cannot very well be called.

I remember the subject of bravery being discussed one evening at a dinner party, when a German gentleman present related an anecdote, the hero of which was a young Prussian officer.

“I cannot give you his name,” our German friend explained—­“the man himself told me the story in confidence; and though he personally, by virtue of his after record, could afford to have it known, there are other reasons why it should not be bruited about.

“How I learnt it was in this way.  For a dashing exploit performed during the brief war against Austria he had been presented with the Iron Cross.  This, as you are well aware, is the most highly-prized decoration in our army; men who have earned it are usually conceited about it, and, indeed, have some excuse for being so.  He, on the contrary, kept his locked in a drawer of his desk, and never wore it except when compelled by official etiquette.  The mere sight of it seemed to be painful to him.  One day I asked him the reason.  We are very old and close friends, and he told me.

“The incident occurred when he was a young lieutenant.  Indeed, it was his first engagement.  By some means or another he had become separated from his company, and, unable to regain it, had attached himself to a line regiment stationed at the extreme right of the Prussian lines.

“The enemy’s effort was mainly directed against the left centre, and for a while our young lieutenant was nothing more than a distant spectator of the battle.  Suddenly, however, the attack shifted, and the regiment found itself occupying an extremely important and critical position.  The shells began to fall unpleasantly near, and the order was given to ‘grass.’

“The men fell upon their faces and waited.  The shells ploughed the ground around them, smothering them with dirt.  A horrible, griping pain started in my young friend’s stomach, and began creeping upwards.  His head and heart both seemed to be shrinking and growing cold.  A shot tore off the head of the man next to him, sending the blood spurting into his face; a minute later another ripped open the back of a poor fellow lying to the front of him.

“His body seemed not to belong to himself at all.  A strange, shrivelled creature had taken possession of it.  He raised his head and peered about him.  He and three soldiers—­youngsters, like himself, who had never before been under fire—­appeared to be utterly alone in that hell.  They were the end men of the regiment, and the configuration of the ground completely hid them from their comrades.

“They glanced at each other, these four, and read one another’s thoughts.  Leaving their rifles lying on the grass, they commenced to crawl stealthily upon their bellies, the lieutenant leading, the other three following.