Letters from every member of my family were hastening towards me; but all were delayed except the single post-card, which told me only too plainly of the tragedy at home which was the result of my absence.
The message, written in a shaky hand, ran briefly, thus: "My son, for four weeks we have mourned you as dead; God bless you!"
In the despair of my heart my blindness and my bonds of captivity seemed to grow greater. In that simple message I realised the terrible truth, the full significance of the tragedy which had followed my fall.
What had been my suffering to theirs? After all I was a soldier, and mine was a duty. But those who wait at home—what of them?
The letters which followed confirmed my worst fears. I trembled and cried like a child.
How brave they had all been! How unworthy seemed my life to warrant the heroic fortitude and silent suffering which these letters unfolded! What were a few bullets compared with the pluck and silent self-sacrifice of the women of Britain, who were untrained to bear such shocks? What physical pain could compare with such anguish as theirs?
The first intimation reached my home by a letter returned from France, undelivered, and bearing a slip containing these words, type-written: "Killed in action September 9."
Three days later a knock at the door, and a telegraph boy handed in a telegram which read:
"Most deeply regret inform you Cap. H.G. Nobbs —— London Regiment, Killed in Action Sep. 9."
and also another telegram: