Listen to this.  I rode some days ago into the Imperial city in order to climb the famous Mei Shan, or Coal Hill, built, according to ancient tradition, so that when some immense disaster overwhelmed the ruling dynasty, it might be lighted and consume in its flames the whole Imperial family.  That is the tradition—­that the hill is an immense funeral pyre. (Nowadays, however, ruling dynasties are so human that they merely run away.) All the way up that historic hill I was followed by the whining voices of disappointed looters.  A battalion of the French troops, which came straight from Europe a week or so too late for the relief, was in garrison at the base of this eminence, and French soldiers escorted me to the top, probably under orders to see that I did not try and chip off the gold-leaf which is reputed to line the roofs of the pavilions.  You can never be quite certain for what reason you are watched by rival nationalities now.

It was a long climb to the top, up winding steps that never ceased and through little pavilions which looked out on the scene below.  A final flight of stairs at last introduced you into a structure which crowned the whole.  From here the view was magnificent.  Right below you could see far into the Palace and inspect the marble bridges, the lotus-covered sheets of water and all the other things of the Imperial plaisaunce.  Farther on, the city of Peking spread out in huge expanses hemmed in only miles away by the grey tracing of the city walls and the high-standing towers.  Farther again were waving fields with uncut crops rotting as they stood, because all the country people had fled to escape the vengeance.  On the very horizon line were dark hills.  The view was indeed immense and wonderful.

I stood lost a little in this contemplation, and forgot the attendants who had so persistently followed me, until suddenly their voices rose in a dispute which was purposely loud so that it should engage my attention.  At last, as the stratagem had failed, and I did not turn, a soldier bolder than his comrades pushed up to me, and saluting politely enough, said that they had a few things to sell, although they had had hard luck and had found Peking almost empty.  Indeed, before showing me anything, they complained bitterly of the men from Tonkin, who were no better than disciplinary battalions and who got everything because they had come with the first columns.  This they called cruelly unjust.  Then from their pockets and tunics these men began producing their little articles de vertu.  They made me laugh at first, for they had systematised so much that each man’s possession had a ticket attached, with the price in francs clearly marked.  That was good commercialism brought straight from France.