“It is curious, lad,” the Doctor said, after a pause; “and the picture, you see, has so far come true that you have made the acquaintance with one of the actors whom you did not previously know.” “I did not believe in the truth of it, Doctor, and I do not believe in it now. There was one feature in the fight which was, as I regret to know, impossible.” “And what was that, Bathurst?” Bathurst was silent for a time. “You are an old friend, Doctor, and you will understand my case, and make more allowances for it than most people would. When I first came out here I dare say you heard some sort of reports as to why I had left the army and had afterwards entered the Civil Service.” “There were some stupid rumors,” the Doctor said, “that you had gone home on sick leave just after the battle of Chillianwalla, and had then sold out, because you had shown the white feather. I need not say that I did not give any credit to it; there is always gossip flying about as to the reasons a man leaves the army.” “It was quite true, Doctor. It is a hideous thing to say, but constitutionally I am a coward.” “I cannot believe it,” the Doctor said warmly. “Now that I know you, you are the last man of whom I would credit such a thing.” “It is the bane of my life,” Bathurst went on. “It is my misfortune, for I will not allow it is my fault. In many things I am not a coward. I think I could face any danger if the danger were a silent one, but I cannot stand noise. The report of a gun makes me tremble all over, even when it is a blank cartridge that is fired. When I was born my father was in India. A short time before I came into the world my mother had a great fright. Her house in the country was broken into by burglars, who entered the room and threatened to blow out her brains if she moved; but the alarm was given, the men servants came down armed, there was a struggle in her room, pistol shots were fired, and the burglars were overpowered and captured. My mother fainted and was ill for weeks afterwards--in fact, until the time I was born; and she died a few days later, never having, the doctor said, recovered from the shock she had suffered that night. “I grew up a weakly, timid boy--the sort of boy that is always bullied at school. My father, as you know, was a general officer, and did not return home until I was ten years old. He was naturally much disappointed in me, and I think that added to my timidity, for it grew upon me rather than otherwise. Morally, I was not a coward. At school I can say that I never told a lie to avoid punishment, and my readiness to speak the truth did not add to my popularity among the other boys, and I used to be called a sneak, which was even more hateful than being called a coward.