came another despatch from Prince Ching and others—­as these letters are now always curiously signed, the lesser men hiding their identity in this way—­asking the Ministers once more to do something impossible; and once more a despatch has gone back, saying that we are perfectly happy to remain where we are, only we would like some vegetables and fruit....  And so, to-day, four cartloads of melons and cabbages have actually come with the Empress Dowager’s own compliments.  The melons looked beautifully red and ripe, and the cabbages of perfect green after this drab-coloured life.  But many people would not eat of this Imperial gift; they feared being poisoned.  More despatches from Europe have also been transmitted—­notably a cipher one to the French Minister, saying that fifteen thousand French troops have left France.  Evidently a change has taken place somewhere.

But while these pourparlers are proceeding, some of us are not at all quieted.  Fortification of the inner lines is going on harder than ever.  The entire British Legation has now walls of immense strength, with miniature blockhouses at regular intervals, and a system of trenches.  If our advanced posts have to fall back they may be able to hold this Legation for a few days in spite of the artillery fire.  French digging, in the form of very narrow and very deep cuts designed to stop the enemy’s possible mining, is being planned and carried out everywhere, and soon the general asylum will be even more secure than it has been since the beginning.  Undoubtedly we are just marking time—­stamping audibly with our diplomatic feet to reassure ourselves, and to show that we are still alive.  For in spite of all this apparent friendliness, which was heralded with such an outburst of shaking hands and smiling faces, there have already been a number of little acts of treachery along the lines, showing that the old spirit lurks underneath just as strong.

In the Northern Hanlin posts which skirt the British Legation, a black-faced Bannerman held up a green melon in one hand, and signalled with the other to one of our men to advance and receive this gift.  Our man dropped his rifle, and was sliding a leg over his barricade, when with a swish a bullet went through the folds of his shirt—­the nearest shave he had ever had.  The volunteer dropped back to his side, and then, after, a while, waved an empty tin in his hand as a notice that he desired a resumption of friendly relations.  The Chinese brave cautiously put his head up, and once again, with a crack, the compliment was returned, and the soldier was slightly wounded, and now we only peer through our loopholes and are careful of our heads.  The novelty of the armistice is wearing off, and we feel that we are only gaining time.