next day, when a notice was posted on the bell-tower of the British Legation forbidding everyone under severe penalties to approach this delectable building, R——­ had his revanche a la Russe, as he called it.  Taking off his cap, and assuming a very polite air of doubt and perplexity, he inquired of the lady missionary committee which over-sees the welfare of these girls, “Pardon, mesdames,” he said purposely in French, “cette affiche est-ce seulement pour les civiles ou aussi pour les militaires!”

VII

THE HOSPITAL AND THE GRAVEYARD

5th July, 1900.

* * * * *

It depends very much on moments as to whether one has time to laugh or to cry.  The last time I wrote, we were nearly all laughing—­when we had the time; to-day most of us are doing the reverse.  Be one ever so hardened, it is impossible to go to the humble hospital and the little graveyard of our battered lines without tender feelings welling up, and perhaps even a silent tear dropping.  We have all been to either one or the other place to-day; our losses are mounting up.  In the hospital alone there are now fifty sorely wounded and tortured men, groaning and moving this way and that.  The bullet and shell wounds have so far been distinguished for their deadliness, probably because of the close ranges at which we are fighting.  It is a strange assembly, in all truth, to be mustered within the precincts of a diplomatic Chancery, wherein were prepared only a few short weeks ago dry-as-dust documents, which so hastened the storm by not promptly arresting it.  For the Chancery of the British Legation is now the hospital, and on despatch tables, lately littered with diplomatic documents, operations are now almost hourly performed and muttered groans wrung from maimed men.  It is a curious thought this—­to think that the vengeance of foolish despatches overtakes innocent men and lays them groaning and bleeding on the very spot where the ink which framed them flowed.  It does not often happen that cause and effect meet like this.

It is a wretched hospital, too, even though it is the best which can be made.  Every window has to be bricked in partially; every entrance where bullets might flick in must be closed; and in the heat and dust of a Peking summer the stench is terrible.  Worse still are the flies, which, attracted by the newly spilt blood of strong men, swarm so thickly that another torture is added.  Half the nationalities of Europe lie groaning together, each calling in his native tongue for water, or for help to loosen a bandage which in the shimmering heat has become unbearable.  And as the rifle cracking rises to the storm it always does every few hours, more men will be brought in and laid on that gruesome operating table.  The very passageways have been already invaded by men lying on long chairs, because there are no more beds.  Even they are happy; they have crept to a place where they can gasp in quiet; that is all they ask for.