But all this is many miles from the sacred capital.  The cry is still that we of Peking are safe, and that even if this is to be a true rebellion we cannot be hurt.  The cry, however, is not so lusty as it was even three or four days ago, and, indeed, has only become an official cry—­that is, one you are permitted to contradict privately when you meet your dear colleagues in the street and wonder aloud what is really going to happen.  In the despatches Peking is still quite safe, although unwholesome.  Yet our own private political situations, of which we were so proud and talked so vauntingly, have all now disappeared, miserable things, and are quite lost and forgotten.  No one cares to talk about them.  People merely say that all business is temporarily suspended; that we must wait and merely mark time.

But we discovered something worth knowing at the last moment to-day which is, without any doubt, true.  The Empress Dowager returned to-day from the Summer Palace, and is now actually in the Forbidden City.  We are at a loss to know exactly as yet what this means, and whether it is an augury of good or of bad.  The Winter Palace is so near us; it is just to the west of us.  The fact that the redoubtable Tung Fu-hsiang rode behind his Imperial mistress with his banner-bearers flaunting their colours and his trumpets blaring as loudly as possible is, however, not very reassuring.  It seemed like defiance and treachery.

But at first, in spite of the Empress’s entry, there were not many rumours accompanying her; in the late afternoon they came so thick and fast that no one had time to write them down.  But of rumours we have had more than our bellyful.  Let me tell some of the facts.

First and foremost.  The racecourse grand-stand where less than a month ago we were all watching the struggles for victory between our various short-legged ponies, has gone up in flames and puff—­just like that—­the social battle-ground is no more.  The Boxers, for everybody who does anything nowadays is a Boxer, tried to grill our official caretakers on the red-hot bricks, but the neighbouring village came to the rescue and shouted the marauders out of the place.  That is the nearest danger which has been heard of.  Immediately after this some Legation students, riding out on the sands under the Tartar Wall, were openly attacked by spear-armed men, and only escaped by galloping furiously and firing the revolvers which everyone now carries.  Most important of all, however, to us is that aged Sir R——­ H——­ is hauling down his colours, and has been rapidly calling in all his scattered staff who live near the premises of the Tsung-li Yamen—­China’s Foreign Office.  Here we are, the Legations of all Europe, with five hundred sailors and marines cleaning their rifles and marking out distances in the capital of a so-called friendly Power; with our pro forma despatches still being despatched while our real messages are frightened; attempting to weather a storm which the Chinese Government is powerless to arrest.  The very passers-by are becoming sheep-eyed and are looking at us askance.