“What can you do,” groaned the Bulgarian soldier, “with a man who always lives in bodily fear—fear of assassination, fear of disease, fear of accident? You cannot think what a job it was to keep up our troops’ enthusiasm for a king who dare not look upon a wounded soldier, who can never be persuaded to go within a mile of a hospital, who trembles at the sound of the guns, and hides himself in a railway carriage, in which he flits from place to place, always keeping as far as possible from the front.” This short and forcible summary of Ferdinand’s behaviour in time of war is only at fault since it falls short of the actual details of his supreme cowardice. No greater physical coward has existed in modern times. Fear lives with him always; it is a disease rather than a frame of mind which stern resolution might overcome. He is sick at the sight of shed blood, he can no more help trembling at the sound of the cannon than a timid young girl. One of my most vivid recollections of him is of a struggle with this craven fear which took place in the sight of a very considerable crowd. It happened curiously enough at Brussels, where I saw him in 1910. He was then, as always, most interested in aviation, and in a weak moment had engaged to make a flight with the Belgian pilot Delamines. Up to that time no king had ever ascended in an aeroplane, and Ferdinand was probably impelled to make his rash engagement by his desire to be the first monarch to fly. But when the time came for him to enter the machine, he was possessed by nothing but fear. One could only sympathize with him, so pitiable a spectacle was he in his terror. His face was livid, and his thin lips were ashen grey. His jaunty walk had completely gone, and he tottered to his seat as though he were going to the gallows. With a supreme effort he gasped, “I am too fat to fly, but let us fly nevertheless.” It did not sound jocular, but pathetic. But he was in for it, and was strapped to his seat. There was a cheer when the aeroplane rose, and the Czar of Bulgaria, with eyes tightly shut, soared off. Two circuits of the aerodrome he made and then descended to earth more dead than alive. A flask was offered him as he dismounted, and with unaffected joy he drained it, and the colour came back to his cheeks. The reaction set in, and he was sprightly in his satisfaction at the feat he had accomplished. Nothing could have been more evident of his will to do bold things, and of the craven fear that held him back from his wish. It is not surprising, therefore, to find that he placed himself at the head of his army on the outbreak of the Balkan war, and sallied forth against the Turks determined to do or die. The very first sight of a wounded Bulgarian soldier killed all the martial fervour in him, and thenceforward, like the Duke of Plaza Toro, He led his regiments from behind, He found it less exciting.