* * * * *

Someone was bawling in my ear, and pointing upward.  It was Archie and his face was wild.  I looked and gasped—­seized my glasses and looked again.

A second before Lensch had been alone; now there were two machines.

I heard Archie’s voice.  ‘My God, it’s the Gladas—­the little Gladas.’  His fingers were digging into my arm and his face was against my shoulder.  And then his excitement sobered into an awe which choked his speech, as he stammered—­’It’s old—­’

But I did not need him to tell me the name, for I had divined it when I first saw the new plane drop from the clouds.  I had that queer sense that comes sometimes to a man that a friend is present when he cannot see him.  Somewhere up in the void two heroes were fighting their last battle—­and one of them had a crippled leg.

I had never any doubt about the result, though Archie told me later that he went crazy with suspense.  Lensch was not aware of his opponent till he was almost upon him, and I wonder if by any freak of instinct he recognized his greatest antagonist.  He never fired a shot, nor did Peter . . .  I saw the German twist and side-slip as if to baffle the fate descending upon him.  I saw Peter veer over vertically and I knew that the end had come.  He was there to make certain of victory and he took the only way.  The machines closed, there was a crash which I felt though I could not hear it, and next second both were hurtling down, over and over, to the earth.

They fell in the river just short of the enemy lines, but I did not see them, for my eyes were blinded and I was on my knees.

* * * * *

After that it was all a dream.  I found myself being embraced by a French General of Division, and saw the first companies of the cheerful bluecoats whom I had longed for.  With them came the rain, and it was under a weeping April sky that early in the night I marched what was left of my division away from the battle-field.  The enemy guns were starting to speak behind us, but I did not heed them.  I knew that now there were warders at the gate, and I believed that by the grace of God that gate was barred for ever.

* * * * *

They took Peter from the wreckage with scarcely a scar except his twisted leg.  Death had smoothed out some of the age in him, and left his face much as I remembered it long ago in the Mashonaland hills.  In his pocket was his old battered Pilgrim’s Progress.  It lies before me as I write, and beside it—­for I was his only legatee—­the little case which came to him weeks later, containing the highest honour that can be bestowed upon a soldier of Britain.

It was from the Pilgrim’s Progress that I read next morning, when in the lee of an apple-orchard Mary and Blenkiron and I stood in the soft spring rain beside his grave.  And what I read was the tale in the end not of Mr Standfast, whom he had singled out for his counterpart, but of Mr Valiant-for-Truth whom he had not hoped to emulate.  I set down the words as a salute and a farewell: