VI

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THE WHITE SLAVES OF HAICHENG

Haicheng at last! The Russians are only five miles away and they can drop shells on us, but they don't. The attachÉs were taken out on a reconnaissance yesterday, and we, too, if we are very good, will be allowed to see a Japanese soldier in a real ante-mortem trench.

We left Yoka-tong this morning at seven and in three hours reached dirty, fly-ridden Ta-shi-kao. The valley has broadened as we have come north. The Chinese houses are better and the millet-fields (kow-liang) stretch away like a sea on each side of the road. Soldiers were bathing in the river that we crossed to get to the gate of Haicheng, and the stretch of sand was dotted with naked men. Every grove was, in color, mingled black, brown, and dirty white from the carts, horses, and soldiers packed under the trees. We found the courteous Captain of Gendarmes, by accident, straightway, and we had to take tea hot, tea cold, and tea with condensed milk before he would lead us to our quarters in this mud compound. Lewis, Reggie, and Scull greeted us with a shout and produced beer and Tansan and a bottle of champagne cider. Heavens, what nectar each was! The rest are coming, but the button on the dragon's tail—the Irishman on the bicycle—has come off. Nobody knows where it dropped. Reggie the big Frenchman is newly mounted on a savage yellow beast that can be approached, like a cow, only on the right side—and Lewis told the story of the two. Davis answered with the story of our tribulations—his, Brill's and mine. He told it so well that Brill and I wished we had been there....

We slept in our riding-clothes for the third time last night and to-day we know our fate. We are to play a week's engagement here in a drama of still life—the title of which heads these lines. With a sleeve-badge of identification on—the Red Badge of Shame we call it—we can wander more or less freely within the city walls. We can even climb on them and walk around the town—about two miles—but we cannot go outside without a written application from the entire company, and then only under a guard. We are to have three guards, by the way, and our letters—even private ones—are to go to the censor and not come back to us. Thus no man will know what has gone, and what hasn't, or whether what went was worth sending. Later this restriction was removed.

Our Three Guardsmen came to us last night and told these things. One was thick-set, bearded, and a son of Chicago University; one was smooth-shaven, thin-faced—and an authority on international law—both, of course, speaking English. The third carried a small mustache and talked very good French—so said Reggie. After the usual apologies, the bearded one said in partial excuse for shackling us:

"Some of our common soldiers, never having seen a foreigner before, are not able to distinguish between you and Russians. We wish to provide against accidents." And he laughed.

An incident on the way here, yesterday afternoon, made this sound plausible. I was riding alone, and hearing a noise behind me I turned in my saddle, to see a Japanese slipping upon me with his bayonet half-drawn from his scabbard. I stopped Fuji and said: "Nan desuka?" (What is it?) and he, too, stopped, and turned back. Whether this was a case in point or whether he was drunk and showing off before his companions, or whether my Tokio accent paralyzed him, I don't know, but later, the men who broke away from our guards and got among the soldiers, testified that they received nothing but courtesy, kindness, and childlike curiosity from the Japanese Tommy always.

"You saw Nanshan?" asked the bearded one.

"No," I said. "We want to see fighting, not battle-fields." He laughed again.

"You have had a very hard time, but I think the fight at Liao-Yang will recompense you."

"Have you heard anything from Port Arthur?"

"Nothing."

"We heard the guns as we came by and it was very exasperating." He laughed again.

"We do not think much about Port Arthur. That is only a question of time. Liao-Yang will be decisive. The sooner the Russians give up at Port Arthur, the better it will be for them."

"But they not only lose their own ships, but free the Japanese fleet for operations elsewhere."

"That's true."

"And they free the investing army for operations up here."

"That's true." He shook his head. "But Liao-Yang will be decisive."

They got up to go then and the bearded one simply bowed. The other two shook hands all around, and when they were through, the third said: "Well, I will shake hands, too," and he went the round.

Lewis has just come in—his face luminous with joyful news. General Oku has sent us over:

1 doz. bottles of champagne.
4 doz. bottles of beer.
1 package of fly-paper.
1 live sheep.

Liao-Yang is only about twenty-nine miles away, and the Three Guardsmen say we are not to be here very long. If the Russians can drop a shell on us here, I wish they would—just one, anyhow. Even one would save the faces of us a little.

... That poor Manchuria lamb of General Oku's died voluntarily this morning before the canteen-man could kill it—but the champagne, the beer, and the fly-paper are all the heart could desire. This day has been interesting. The Three Guardsmen rounded us up this afternoon and took us to see General Oku.

We burnished up riding-gear and riding-clothes and at three o'clock the compound was filled with squealing stallions and braying jackasses. It took three men to saddle Reggie's savage Mongolian. The Irishman, as usual, was not to be found—he and Scull had gone afoot, to the worry of the Three Guardsmen; but we rode out finally, single-file, a brave but strangely assorted company—Brill on his chestnut, Lewis on a milk-white charger, the Italian on an iron-gray, Davis on Devery, LagueriÉ on a little white donkey, Prior on his seventeen-hand, weak-backed white horse, and big Burleigh on a tiny savage pony that pasted Prior's horse, as we marched, with both heels.

"Why don't you go to the rear, Burleigh?" said Prior. "That beast of yours kicks."

"No, he doesn't," said Burleigh indignantly. "He only bites."

These two veterans and Davis wore ribbons on the left breast. Dean Prior, indeed, seemed to have his color-box there. I had a volunteer policeman's badge that came from the mountains of old Virginia. I was proud of it, and it meant campaigns, too, but I couldn't pull it amidst the glory of those three. Lieutenant Satake, the authority on international law, led. The bearded one guarded our centre and the third watched our rear. At the city gate a sergeant sprang to his feet:

"Hoo—!" he said, and I thought he was going to give us a whole cheer, but it was only a half. Still all the sentries sprang to attention and the soldiers at the gate stood rigid as their muskets. Over the stretch of white sand, across the yellow river, and up a sandy road we went, past staring sentries, and then into a little Chinese village, where we dismounted. No servants were allowed, so soldiers came forward to hold our horses. Fuji was curvetting no little.

"Warui desu!" I said, which still means, "He's bad," and the soldier smiled and led Fuji far to one side.

We followed Satake into a court-yard. He seemed rather nervous and presently motioned us to halt. Presently he came back, called the roll, and each man, after answering his name, stepped to one side and stood in line where there were two tables under grape arbors and covered with cigars and cigarettes. Satake looked relieved—not one of us had escaped; even the Irishman was there. Several officers stood expectantly about, and, after a long pause, a tired-looking, slender man appeared, accompanied by a rather stout, sleek-looking young one, and followed by an officer with a beard and a rather big nose that in color bespoke considerable cheer. When they got near, a sad-faced interpreter stepped forward and in a sad, uneasy voice said:

"I have the honor to present you to His Imperial Highness, Prince Nashimoto."

The sleek young man bowed and thrust out his hand. We all advanced, spoke each his own name, and shook. Prior said, "Melton Prior."

Burleigh, bending low, said, almost confidentially:

"Burleigh." Davis came last——

"Mr. Davis." Then the tired-looking man, General Oku, and his aide with the nose of good cheer, shook hands: only it was they who went around the circle this time. The Prince retired behind one of the tables and General Oku stepped forward with his back to the Prince, and through the sad interpreter said things:

We had come thousands of miles and had endured many hardships getting to the front, and he welcomed us. He was sorry that on the battle-field he could give us so few comforts, but he was glad to see us and would do all he could for us, etc., etc.

Such solemnity as there was! Aide stood behind General—staff behind the aide. Most of them kept their faces bent till chin touched breast, and never looked up at all. If a high priest had been making a prayer for the soul of a dead monarch while other priests listened, the scene could not have been more solemn. Straight through, it was stiff, formal, uneasy—due, of course, to the absence of a common tongue and the uneasiness on the part of the Japanese in receiving us after the Occidental way; and I wondered if the scene would not have been the same had Occidentals been receiving the Japanese after the way of Japan. But I think not—American humor and adaptability would have lightened the gloom a little. I watched Oku keenly. Though I had seen him coming for twenty yards, I recalled suddenly that I saw nothing but his face until he got quite near. It was sad with something of Lincoln's sadness. In profile, it was kindly, especially when he smiled; full-faced there were proofs that he could be iron and relentless. But his eyes! Big, black, glittering, fanatical, ever-moving they were, and you caught them never but for a moment, but when you did, they made you think of lightning and thunder-storms. He was dressed simply in olive-green serge, with one star on his cap and three stars and three stripes on his sleeve. His boots were good. His sword hung in his left hand—unclinched. His other hand looked nerveless. Not once did he shift his weight from his right foot—only the sole of his left ever touching the stone flagging. He is the most remarkable looking man I've seen thus far among the Japanese, and I think we shall hear from him.

Then the aide with the cheerful nose spoke the same welcome and hoped we would obey the regulations. Dean Prior answered, thanking the General for the champagne, the beer, the fly-paper, and the lamb, whose untoward demise he gracefully skipped, and said he had always been trusted by generals in the field and hoped he would be trusted now. Then we smoked and the Irishman spoke halting French with the Prince, who (he looked it) had been educated in Paris. General Oku asked questions and we asked questions.

"How long have you been in Japan?"

"More than five months." He laughed and his teeth were not good.

"You must know Tokio well."

"I know every stone in Tokio," somebody said.

The General did not smile this time.

"Have you been to Nikko?" This was a malicious chance.

"We were afraid to leave Tokio for fear of not getting to the front."

"Shall we see much fighting?"

"I think so—from a high place. You cannot see in the valleys—the kow-liang is too high to see over even on horseback. Yes, you will see the fight."

Then we shook hands again, saluted the staff and departed.

The Japanese soldier had Fuji behind a tree—and he was smiling.

"Warui desu!" he said, and he looked at me with approval that I dared ride him; for Fuji was Japanese and bad, and Japanese are not good horsemen. At any rate, he followed me to the gate and held Fuji twice more before we finally got away. On the way back to captivity LagueriÉ turned a somersault over his white donkey's head. He rose, spluttering, between the donkey's forelegs. It looked for a moment as though the donkey were riding LagueriÉ.


At sunset, next day, the Irishman said:

"Come with me," and I followed unquestioning, because questioning was useless. Out the compound we went, through narrow streets and up a rocky little hill in the centre of the village, where we could look over the low tiled roofs—here and there a tree was growing up through them—over the mud-enclosures, the high-notched city walls, the stretch of white sand beyond, a broader stretch of green still farther on, slit with the one flashing cimeter-like sweep of the river—and then over the low misty hills to the tender after-glow, above which wisp-like, darkening clouds hung motionless.

"Greatest people in the world," said the Irishman with an all-encompassing sweep of his right arm. "All happy—all peaceful. The soldier lowest here in the social scale—in Japan, the highest. Home the unit. Tilled the same soil for countless generations—always plenty to eat. We forced opium on 'em with war in '52. To think they've got to be cursed with our blasted, blasting materialism."

I had been through all that with the Irishman many times before, so we went on. From a gateway a cur barked viciously at us. An old man came out to call him in and the Irishman took the Chinaman by the arm and pointed to a walled enclosure on the extreme summit.

"I want to get in there." How, on sight, he wins the confidence of these people—men, women, and children—how he makes himself understood, not knowing a word of Chinese, I don't know. Straightway the old fellow went with us, the Irishman clinging to his arm, pounded on the heavy door and left us.

"What is it?"

"A monastery," said the Irishman.

An ancient opened the portal, by and by, and we went in—through an alley-way to a court-yard, stone-flagged—and I almost gasped. Temples age-worn, old gardens tangled and unkempt and trees unpruned, dropped in terraces below us; and with them in terraces dropped, too, the notched gray walls that shut in the hushed silence of the spot from the noise of the outside world. Black-and-white magpies flew noiselessly about among the trees. Somewhere pigeons cooed and butterflies were fluttering everywhere. It was a deserted Confucian monastery—gone to wreck and ruin with only one priest to guard it, but untouched by the hand of Russian or Japanese. Both use temples only when they must, and it seems that Occidentals have much to learn from Tartar and heathen in reverence for the things that concern the universal soul. To escape that compound, we should have pitched our tents there, I suppose, had we been allowed. But it was a place of peaceful refuge open to us all. An Irishman had found it, and sharing the discovery we sat there and dreamed in silence until the after-glow was gone.

... It is pretty mournful this morning—rainy, muddy, dreary, dark. We have established a policing system—each man taking turn; but the mud in the court-yard deepens and the smells fade not at all. We have flies, mosquitoes, night-bugs that are homelike in species and scorpions that are not. Every man shakes his shoes in the morning for a hiding scorpion. A soldier brought in a dead one to-day, that yesterday had bitten him on the hand. He was bandaged to the shoulder, and but for quick treatment might have lost his arm. It can't be healthy in here, but only Dean Prior and two others have been ill. What a game Dean it is, by the way! He laughs at his sickness, laughs when that big white horse with the weak back goes down in a river or mud-hole with him, and never complains at all. I have never seen such forbearance and patience and good-humor among any set of men. If a man wakes up cross and in an ill-humor—that day is his. He may kick somebody's water-pail over the wall, storm at his servant, curse out the food, and be a general irritable nuisance; but the rest forbear, look down at their plates, and nobody says a word, for each knows that the next day may be his. This forbearance is one benefit anyhow that we are getting out of this campaign, which is a sad, sad waste thus far. But Reggie appears at the door. As he marches past us we rise and sing the Marseillaise; when he marches back, we sing it again, and that smile of his is reward enough. There is good news—we are to go out on a reconnaissance to-morrow, ourselves.


Holy Moses! but that reconnaissance was a terrifying experience. We went out past the station where the last fight was, along a dusty road and up a little hill, left our horses under its protecting bulk, sneaked over the top, and boldly stood upright on the slant of the other side. Below us was a big rude cross over a Russian grave. Things were pointed out to us.

"You see that big camel-backed mountain there," said one of the Three Guardsmen. We levelled glasses. "Well, that's where the main body of the Russians are."

"How far away is that camel-back?" somebody asked innocently. The Guardsman had turned and was beckoning violently to the Italian (who was on top of the little hill, some thirty feet above us) to come down. Then he said:

"About ten miles."

"So desuka!" (truly) said the same voice, lapsing with awe into Japanese.

"So desu!"—which is "truly" in response,—said the Guardsman with satisfaction, and we had a thrill. The Italian now had blithely drawn near. He seemed unafraid, but perhaps he had been unaware of his peril on the skyline only ten miles from a Russian gun.

Then we cautiously advanced along the road for another half a mile to an empty trench in a little camp near which there must have been all of twenty Japanese soldiers. One correspondent stepped across the trench and was gesticulated back with some warmth. Davis sat down on the trench and was politely asked to get up and move back—not that he would hurt the trench, but because he was sitting on the half of it that was next the ten-mile-away enemy—and apparently the Guardsman had orders that we must not cross a carefully marked line. Davis got up like a shot and hurriedly went away back to sit down.

The major of the post there gave us tea and beer at his quarters near by. He was a big fellow and was most kind and courteous. He had been a professor in a war-college and had asked the privilege of death at the front. He got it, poor fellow, and later I saw a picture of his body being burned after the fight at Liao-Yang.

We are getting pretty restless now. The Irishman and I were denied admittance at the monastery yesterday by the order of the Imperial Highness whom we met the other day. However, he relaxed it in our favor. Dean Prior started to go up on the city wall to-day to sketch, and was stopped by a sentry, who put a naked bayonet within two feet of his breast. He came back raging, and wrote a scathing letter which I don't think he will send.


This morning Wong came.

At ten o'clock the Irishman appeared at the entrance of the compound, leading by the hand a little Chinese boy some eight or ten years old. He was the dirtiest little wretch I ever saw, but he smiled—and never saw I such teeth or such a winsome smile. The Irishman said simply and gravely:

"This is Wong," and no more. He led the boy behind the paling that enclosed our bathing-quarters, plucking, as he walked, a sponge and a cake of soap, which happened to be mine. Then I heard:

"Take it off!" And again: "Take it off, I say!"

Apparently he was obeyed. Then:

"Take that off, too; yes, that, too!" Evidently the boy had but two garments on, for considerable splashing took the place of peremptory commands. By and by they came out together and, still hand in hand, passed out of the compound. In half an hour the Irishman came back.

"I've just taken Wong down to Poole's," he said, still gravely, "to get him a new suit of clothes."

"The trousers were too long, and Wong objected. Poole told him that trousers were worn long this season, and Wong compromised by rolling them up. He'll be here by and by."

By and by Wong came back resplendent in new blouse, new trousers, new shoes and socks. On his breast was sewed a big white piece of cotton in the shape of a shamrock, and on the shamrock was printed this:

Straightway was Wong an habituÉ of the compound and straightway his education began. Wong was quick to learn.

"Attention, Wong!" the Irishman would say, and Wong would spring to his feet and dash for a bottle of—Tansan.

"Make ready!" Wong would poise the bottle. "Aim—fire!" Wong would fire, and then would come the command, "When!" which meant "cease firing!" and Wong, perfect little soldier that he was, would cease, though his genial hospitality and genuine concern for the happiness of everybody made ceasing very hard. If his master ordered a bottle of wine at the table, Wong would pass it to every man. He was equally hospitable in the matter of cigarettes—anybody's; for he could never see that what belonged to one man did not belong to all. Essentially, in that crowd, he was right. But it was rather expensive for the Irishman, until one day he told Wong always to take the chits to "that fat man"—who was not Reggie—and thereafter the fat man got them.

Wong had caught the military salute from the Japanese soldiers, and every morning, when he came in, he would go around to each of us in turn, clicking his heels, hand at his forehead, and always with that radiant smile flashing from his gentle eyes and his beautiful teeth. The Irishman always slept late. One morning he was awakened by an insistent little voice outside his mosquito-net, saying, over and over:

"Hello, George; wake up! Hello, George; wake up!" Somebody had taught him that; but he saw straightway that it was not respectful, and we could never get him to do it again.

After his second bath he went around pulling his shirt open to show how clean his yellow little body was. Indeed, he got such a passion for cleanliness that one morning he nÄively held out his exquisite hands to Lewis to be manicured—Lewis did it. Again, when Tansan spouted into his face, he reached out, pulled a silk handkerchief from a man's pocket and mopped his face. All of us got to love that boy, and when we went away there was a consultation. We would make up a fund and educate him. His father was called in and an interpreter explained our design. Wong burst into tears and wept bitterly. There were answering drops in the Irishman's eyes.

"I tell you, all the blood shed in this miserable war is not worth those few precious tears. Greatest people on earth! Why should he want to leave them?"

Lovable little Wong! The first word the Irishman said when he came back through that town on our way home was spoken to a group of boys on the street.

"Wong!" he said simply, and they raised a shout of comprehension and dashed away, the Irishman after them. Half an hour later he joined me in a restaurant. Wong was not in town, he said gravely; he had bought a place outside of town with the money we had given him, and had taken his family into the country for the hot season. Anyhow, we saw Wong the gentle, Wong the winning, no more.


A major came this morning to give us a lecture on the battle of Tehlitzu—to while away the tedium, said one of the Guardsmen. The Major is smooth-shaven and very broad between the cheek-bones. His hair is clipped short, his eyes are large, and his face is strong. He must have been a professor in a war-college, for he stood up and drew mountains, hills, valleys, positions, trenches, trees, and made figures—all with wonderful rapidity and skill—backward. That is, he made them for us standing in front of him to look at. A certain division, he said, of a certain regiment, at a certain time had done a certain thing. It was a perfect lecture except that all the really essential facts were skilfully suppressed.

The Major had been present only as an observer—a student—but at one hot place on which he put his finger, he had "lost many friends there," he said impassively.

At that place a young Russian officer led a charge, and his men refused to follow him. The officer drew a dagger and smilingly killed himself.

"We all speak much of that man," said the Major.

At another place the ammunition gave out on both sides, and Japanese and Russians fought with stones—men on both sides being severely wounded. While this was going on some Russian officers advanced, sword in hand, from another point, but they had no followers. One of them started forward and gave challenge. A Japanese officer sprang to meet him, and a duel was fought while soldiers of both armies looked on. "The Japanese was fortunate enough to despatch the Russian," said the Major modestly and dispassionately, "and we buried him with much ceremony and put a barrier over him. It was an interesting study—this battle—as to whether it is better to fight a defensive or an offensive enemy."

"Well, I'd rather have seen that rock-fight," said a correspondent, "and that duel than the whole battle."

The Major looked puzzled and shocked, and went on to tell how they had captured a fat Russian colonel—whose horse was wounded and whose coat was gone.

"He said our artillery fire was—" the Major paused, used a Russian word, and turned to the interpreter helplessly—and the interpreter said:

"Ungodly."

"Yes," said the Major, and he smiled. "The first thing the Russian asked for was a bottle of soda-water, which made us laugh. We do not carry such things in the fields. I gave him ten cigarettes."

"How many men did the Japanese have in that fight?" asked a correspondent.

"Just as many as they have now," was the illuminating answer.

I wonder if anybody but the Japanese knows how many men they have really had in any fight, and whether in consequence their victories have been due to astonishing skill or overwhelming numbers. There is rumor of one lost Japanese division, the whereabouts of which nobody—but the Japanese—knows. It could have been in every fight thus far and nobody—but the Japanese—could know.

We are getting mighty tired now. Several of us concluded up at the monastery to-day that we would go home pretty soon unless there was a change. There we took pictures of temples, monoliths, stone-turtles. The Irishman appeared suddenly—coming down the long steps above us, leading a Chinese child by the hand and carrying a younger one in his arms. How or where he gathers in children the way he does, is a mystery to all of us. Then we took more pictures and four officers came in. We communicated in a Babel of French, German, English, Chinese, and Japanese. They got tea for us from the priest, and were very polite. Later two more came in. Davis and I were writing, and they stood around and looked at us for a while. One approached.

"What are you doing there?"

"Writing," I said.

"Drawing?" he asked suspiciously.

"Yes, drawing," said Davis. "Why do you want to know what we are doing?" I don't think the officer understood—but he understood that something was wrong, and he stood a moment in some awkwardness.

"Good-a-by!" he said.

"Sayonara," we answered.

"I don't think it is anything but curiosity," I said.

"A good deal of it is—because they don't know that they oughtn't to show it. He put us at once in the attitude of being spies. I can't imagine what he thought we were drawing."

"We didn't have our badges on. He might have arrested us."

"That would have been some diversion."

The day has been warm, brilliant—the sky crystalline, deep, and flecked with streamers of wool. At sunset now the rain is sweeping the west like a giant broom, the rush of wind and river is indistinguishable, the silent magpies are flying about, but there is still a mighty peace within these walls. Back now to mud, flies, and fleas.

It's 1 A.M. The fleas won't sleep, and for that reason I can't. Even the drone of school-children chanting Chinese classics—as our little mountaineers chant the alphabet in a "blab-school"—and the barking of dogs have ceased. Somewhere out in the darkness picket-fires are shining where the Sun-children and the White Cubs are soon to lock in a fierce embrace. I like this Manchurian land and I like the Chinaman. Both are human and the country is homelike—with its cornfields, horses, mules, cattle, and sheep and dogs. The striking difference is here, you see no women except very old ones or little girls. Here is the absence of that insistent plague—human manure—that disgusts the sensitive nose in Japan. The "fragrant summer-time" would have been a satire if it had been written in Japan. But there is no charm here as there is everywhere in Nature and Man in Japan. Besides the Chinese, here at least, are filthy in person and in their homes—the smell of the Chinaman is positively acrid—while the Japanese are beyond doubt the very cleanliest people in the world. I wish I could see for myself what they really are in battle. As far as I can make out at long distance, the Japanese army and the individual Japanese soldier seem the best in the world: the soldier for the reason that he cares no more for death than the average Occidental for an afternoon nap—the army for the reason that the Buschido spirit—feudal fealty—having been transferred from Daimio and Samurai to Colonel and General—gives it a discipline that seems perfect. Imagine an army without stragglers or camp-followers, in which one man is as good as another and all boast of but one thing—a willingness to die. It looks as though for the first time in history the fanatical spirit of the Mussulman who believed that he would step, at death, from the battle-field into Paradise, was directed by an acute and world-trained intelligence. As to the soldier, the pivotal point of effectiveness seems to be this: an Occidental and a Japanese quarrel, and they step outside to settle matters. The Occidental thinks not only of killing the Japanese, but of getting out alive. His energies are divided, his concentration of purpose suffers. The Japanese has no such division—he is concerned only with killing his opponent, and he doesn't seem to care whether or not he comes out alive or dead. I'm wondering, though, whether he would fight this way for England—whether he will ever fight again this way for himself.

It has been cold the last two days. The flies have almost disappeared and the fleas are less active—in numbers, anyhow. Two officers came to see us last night and it's the first time we have been honored in this way. One had a long sword 400 years old—the other a short one 500 years old, and both were wonderful blades. Now, the sword of a Samurai was his soul, and the man who even stepped over it did it at the peril of his life. I was rather surprised that they let us handle them so freely.

"We are to leave here very soon," they said.

To-morrow we do leave—toward Liao-Yang.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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