Finally, the hand ceased to follow the lines, and became straggly.

Then he ceased to write.

The words blurred, the paper faded from view, and all Peter saw was a pair of slate-colored eyes.

He laid his head down on the blotter, and the erect, firm figure relaxed.
There is no more terrible ordeal of courage than passive waiting.

Most of us can be brave with something to do, but to be brave for months, for years, with nothing to be done and without hope of the future! So it was in Peter's case.