imals in a vital spot. Then the butcher need
not use his knife, for meat is precious, and even the sick horses that
die, and whose bodies are ordered to be buried quickly, are not safe
from the clutches of our half-starving Chinese refugees....

A few days ago a number of ponies, frightened at some sudden roar of
battle, broke loose and escaped by jumping over in a marvellous way
some low barricades fronting the canal banks. Caught between our own
fire and that of the enemy, and unable to do anything but gallop up
and down frantically in a frightened mob, the poor animals excited our
pity for days without our being able to do a single thing towards
rescuing them. Gradually one by one they were hit, and soon their
festering carcases, lying swollen in the sun, added a little more to
the awful stenches which now surround us. Some men volunteered to go
out and bury them, and cautiously creeping out, shovel in hand, just
as night fell, once more our Peking dust was requisitioned, and a
coverlet of earth spread over them.

The droves of ownerless Peking dogs wandering about and creeping in
and out of every hole and gap are also annoying us terribly. These
pariahs, abandoned by their masters, who have fled from this ruined
quarter of the city, are ravenous with hunger, and fight over the
bodies of the Chinese dead, and dig up the half-buried horses; nothing
will drive them away. In furious bands they rush down on us at night,
sometimes alarming the outposts so much that they open a heavy fire.
An order given to shoot everyone of them, so as to stop these night
rushes, has been carried out, but no matter how many we kill, more
push forward, frantic with hunger, and tear their dead comrades to
pieces in front of our eyes. It is becoming a horrible warfare in this
bricked-in battle-ground.

Inside our lines there are a number of half-starving natives, who were
caught by the storm and are unable to escape. They are poor people of
the coolie classes, and it is no one's business to care for them.
Several times parties of them have attempted to sneak out and get
away, but each time they have been seized with panic, and have fled
back, willing to die with starvation sooner than be riddled by the
enemy's bullets. The native troops beyond our lines shoot at
everything that moves. A few days ago an old rag-picker was seen
outside the Tartar Wall shambling along half dazed towards the
Water-Gate, which runs in under the Great Wall into