along a very indifferently barricaded line, the marines of the German Sea Battalion now lie in an angry frame of mind dangerous for everyone.  They have felt hurt ever since the loss of their Minister, and the men are recklessly desperate.  On the Tartar Wall itself they are exposed to a dusting fire from the great Ha-ta Towers that loom up half a mile from them, and men are already falling.  A three-inch gun commenced firing in the morning—­nobody but the Wall posts noticed it at first—­and now overhead whiz with that odd shaking of the air so hard to explain these light but dangerous projectiles.  Happily it is rather a modern gun, and the Chinese, unaccustomed to the flat trajectory, are firing far too high.  I noticed as I crept along that the shells fell screaming into the Imperial city a mile or two away.  If they only get the range!

Far along the Tartar Wall, towards the Ch’ien Men Gate, yellow dots could be indistinctly seen.  These were the Americans, in their slouch hats and khaki suits, lying on the ground and facing the enemy’s fire in the other direction.  Held in check by the Germans and Americans in two feeble posts of a few men each, the Chinese commanders cannot get their men along the Tartar Wall, and command the Legations that crouch below.  Perhaps that is why playing is only going on and no assaults.  Now sobbing, now gurgling, the bullets pass thickly enough overhead here, sometimes in dense flights like angry wild-fowl, sometimes speeding in quick succession after one another as if they were all late and were frantically endeavouring to make up for lost time....  I am certain now that this fusillade is increasing from hour to hour—­almost from minute to minute.  I do not think playing will soon be the right expression....

To get to the Russo-American side of the defence, there is no help for it, you have to make a long voyage; to climb down off the Wall, pass through the German Legation, cross Legation Street into the French lines, and work your way slowly through acres of compounds and deserted houses.  Yesterday I would have made a dash, but after watching the four hundred yards of wall between the German and American posts, you are easily convinced that even to sneak along, hugging the protecting parapet, would be an undertaking of utter foolishness.  For as I stood looking, the rank undergrowth, which Chinese sloth has allowed in past years to grow up along the top of the Tartar Wall, was apparently alive, now swinging this way, now swaying that, and sometimes even jumping into the air in pieces as if galvanised into madness by the rush of bullets.  The number of riflemen is growing fast.  So passing into the French Legation, great holes let you into the next compound, which happens to be that of my friend C——­, the Peking hotel-keeper.  Here there is a new sight; everybody is at work quite peacefully, milling wheat, washing rice, slaughtering animals, barricading windows—­doing everything, in fact at once.  This fellow C——­