That an English officer--not a nervous wisp of a man like Somers, but a great, hulking, bull-necked gladiator--should have been paralysed with fear by one shot coming out of a Boer farm, and thereby demoralised and incapacitated from taking command of a handful of men; that, instead of blowing his brains out, he should have imposed his Mephistophelian compact upon the unhappy Somers and carried off the knavish business successfully--I could not believe it.

On the other hand, there was the British private.

I have known him all my life, God bless him! Thank God, it is my privilege to know him now, as he lies knocked to bits, cheerily, in our hospital.

It was inconceivable that out of sheer funk he could abandon a popular officer.

And his was not even a scratch crowd, but a hard-bitten regiment with all sorts of glorious names embroidered on its colours....
I hope you see my difficulty in regard to my Betty's love affairs.