The day before yesterday several Englishmen rode down to the Machiapu railway station, which is just outside the Chinese city, and is our Peking station, to welcome, as they thought, Admiral S——­ and his reinforcements, so despairingly telegraphed for by the British Legation just fourteen days later than should have been done.  Their passage to the station was unmarked by incidents, excepting that they noted with apprehension the thickly clustering tents of Kansu soldiery in the open spaces fronting the vast Temples of Heaven and Agriculture.  Once the station was reached a weary wait began, with nothing to relieve the tedium, for the vast crowds which usually surround the “fire-cart stopping-place,” to translate the vernacular, all had disappeared, and in place of the former noisiness there was nothing but silence.

At last, somewhat downcast, our Englishmen were forced to return without a word of news, passing into the Chinese city when it was almost dusk.  Alas! the Kansu soldiery, after the manner of all Celestials, were taking the air in the twilight; and no sooner did they spy the hated foreigner than hoots and curses rose louder and louder.  The horsemen quickened their pace, stones flew, and had it not been for the presence of mind of one man they would have been torn to pieces.  They left the great main street of the outer city in a tremendous uproar and seemed glad to be back among friends.

Yesterday, the 11th, it seemed absolutely certain S——­ would arrive, since he must have left Tientsin on the 10th, and it is only ninety miles by rail.  The Legations wished to despatch a messenger, but the Kansu soldiery on those open spaces were not attractive, and nobody was very anxious to brave them.  Who was to go?  No sooner was it mentioned in the Japanese Legation than, of course, a Japanese was found ready to go; in fact, several Japanese almost came to blows on the subject.  Sugiyama, the chancelier, somehow managed to prove that he had the best right, and go he did, but never to return.

It was dark before his carter turned up in Legation Street, covered with dust and bespattered with blood, while I happened to be there.  It was an ugly story he unfolded, and it is hardly good to tell it.  On the open spaces facing the supplicating altars of Heaven and Agriculture this little Japanese, Sugiyama, met his death in a horrid way.  The Kansu soldiery were waiting for more cursed foreigners to appear, and this time they had their arms with them and were determined to have blood.  So they killed the Japanese brutally while he shielded himself with his small hands.  They hacked off all his limbs, barbarians that they are, decapitated him, then mutilated his body.  It now lies half-buried where it was smitten down.  The carter who drove him was eloquent as only Orientals can be when tragedy flings their customary reserve aside:  “May my tongue be torn out if I scatter falsehoods,” he said again and again, using the customary phrase, as he showed how it all happened.  And late into the night he was still reciting his story to fresh crowds of listeners, who gaped with terror and astonishment.  Squatting in a great Peking courtyard on his hams and calling on the unseen powers to tear out his tongue if he lied, he was a figure of some moment, this Peking carter, for those that thought; for everybody realises that we are now caught and cannot be driven out....