“`You’re a brave man!’

“Some persons on the transport testified to such a comment from the submarine commander.  At any rate, he went back to his U-boat and the undersea.

“That’s the last they saw of him.  The transport came on into Dover.

“England thought the affair was one of the adventures of the sea.  A chance thing, that happened by accident.  But there was one man in England who knew better.”

“You?” I said.

The Baronet shrugged his shoulders.

“St. Alban,” he answered.

He got up and began to walk about the terrace.  I sat with the cup of tea cooling before me.  The big man walked slowly with his fingers linked behind him.  Finally he stopped.  His voice was deep and reflective.

“`Man is altogether the sport of fortune!’ . . .  I read that in Herodotus, in a form at Rugby.  I never thought about it again.  But it’s God’s truth.  St. Alban was at Rugby.  I often wonder if he remembered it.  My word, he lived to verify it!  Herodotus couldn’t cite a case to equal him.  And the old Greek wasn’t hemmed in by the truth.  I maintain that the man’s case has no parallel.

“To have all the painstaking labor of years negatived by one enveloping, vicious misfortune; to be beaten out of life by it, and at the same time to gain that monument out yonder and one’s niche as hero by the grim device of an enemy’s satire; by the acting of a scene that one would never have taken part in if one had realized it, is beyond any complication of tragedy known to the Greek.

“Look at the three strange phases of it:  To be a mediocre Englishman with no special talent; to die in horrible despair; and to leave behind a glorious legend.  And for all these three things to contradict one another in the same life is unequaled in the legends of any people.”

The Baronet went on in a deep level voice.

“There was a vicious vitality behind the whole desperate business.  Every visible impression of the thing was wrong.  Every conception of it held today by the English people is wrong!

“The German submarine didn’t overhaul the hospital transport in the Channel by accident.  The Hun commander didn’t fail to sink the transport out of any humane motives.  He didn’t fail to shoot St. Alban because he was moved by the heroism of the man.  It was all grim calculation!

“He thought it was safe to let St. Alban go ahead.  And he would have been right if St. Alban had been the great egotist that he was.

“The commander of that submarine was Plutonburg of Prussia.  He was the right-hand man of old Von Tirpitz.  He was the one man in the German navy who never ceased to urge its Admiralty to sink everything.  He loathed every fiber of the English people.  We had all sorts of testimony to that.  The trawlers and freightboat captains brought it in.  He staged his piracies to a theatrical frightfulness. `Old England!’ he would say, when he climbed up out of the sea onto the deck of a British ship and looked about him at the sailors, `Old, is right, old and rotten!’ Then he would smite his big chest and quote the diatribes of Treitschke. `But in a world that the Prussian inhabits a nation, old and rotten, may endure for a time, but it shall not endure forever!’