They passed
each other now in the corridors as dog passes cat, and each kept a
watchful eye upon the other lest even in the trenches he might filch
some sheep from the rival fold, whispering heresy in his ear. But the Wednesday night passed without a crisis, and on the Thursday all
was bright once more. It was Ainslie up in the clock tower who had first
heard the distant thud of a gun. Then Dresler heard it, and within half
an hour it was audible to all—that strong iron voice, calling to them
from afar and bidding them to be of good cheer, since help was coming. It was clear that the landing party from the squadron was well on its
way. It would not arrive an hour too soon. The cartridges were nearly
finished. Their half-rations of food would soon dwindle to an even more
pitiful supply. But what need to worry about that now that relief was
assured? There would be no attack that day, as most of the Boxers could
be seen streaming off in the direction of the distant firing, and the
long lines of sangars were silent and deserted. They were all able,
therefore, to assemble at the lunch-table, a merry, talkative party,
full of that joy of living which sparkles most brightly under the
imminent shadow of death. “The pot of caviare!” cried Ainslie. “Come, Professor, out with the
pot of caviare!”

  “Potz-tausend! yes,” grunted old Dresler. “It is certainly time that
we had that famous pot.”

  The ladies joined in, and from all parts of the long, ill-furnished
table there came the demand for caviare. It was a strange time to ask for such a delicacy, but the reason is
soon told. Professor Mercer, the old Californian entomologist, had
received a jar of caviare in a hamper of goods from San Francisco,
arriving a day or two before the outbreak. In the general pooling and
distribution of provisions this one dainty and three bottles of Lachryma
Christi from the same hamper had been excepted and set aside. By common
consent they were to be reserved for the final joyous meal when the end
of their peril should be in sight. Even as they sat the thud-thud of the
relieving guns came to their ears—more luxurious music to their lunch
than the most sybaritic restaurant of London could have supplied. Before
evening the relief would certainly be there. Why, then, should their
stale bread not be glorified by the treasured caviare? But the Professor shook his gnarled old head and smiled his
inscrutable smile. “Better wait,” said he. “Wait! Why wait?” cried the company. “They have still far to come,” he answered. “They will be here for supper at the latest,” said Ralston, of the
railway—a keen, birdlike man, with bright eyes and long, projecting
nose. “They cannot be more than ten miles from us now. If they only did
two miles an hour it would make them due at seven.”

“There is a battle on the way,” remarked the Colonel. “You will grant
two hours or three hours for the battle.”

“Not half an hour,” cried Ainslie. “They will walk through them as if
they were not there. What can these rascals with their matchlocks and
swords do against modern weapons?”

“It depends on who leads the column of relief,” said Dresler. “If they
are fortunate enough to have a German officer——”

“An Englishman for my money!” cried Ralston. “The French commodore is said to be an excellent strategist,” remarked
Father Pierre. “I don’t see that it matters a toss,” cried the exuberant Ainslie. “Mr. Mauser and Mr. Maxim are the two men who will see us through, and with
them on our side no leader can go wrong. I tell you they will just brush
them aside and walk through them. So now, Professor, come on with that
pot of caviare!”

  But the old scientist was unconvinced. “We shall reserve it for supper,” said he. “After all,” said Mr. Patterson, in his slow, precise Scottish
intonation, “it will be a courtesy to our guests—the officers of the
relief—if we have some palatable food to lay before them. I’m in
agreement with the Professor that we reserve the caviare for supper.”

The argument appealed to their sense of hospitality. There was something
pleasantly chivalrous, too, in the idea of keeping their one little
delicacy to give a savour to the meal of their preservers. There was no
more talk of the caviare. “By the way, Professor,” said Mr. Patterson, “I’ve only heard to-day
that this is the second time that you have been besieged in this way. I’m sure we should all be very interested to hear some details of your
previous experience.”

The old man’s face set very grimly. “I was in Sung-tong, in South China, in ’eighty-nine,” said he. “It’s a very extraordinary coincidence that you should twice have been
in such a perilous situation,” said the missionary. “Tell us how you
were relieved at Sung-tong.”

The shadow deepened upon the weary face. “We were not relieved,” said he. “What! the place fell?”

“Yes, it fell.”

“And you came through alive?”

“I am a doctor as well as an entomologist. They had many wounded; they
spared me.”

“And the rest?”

“Assez! assez!” cried the little French priest, raising his hand in
protest. He had been twenty years in China. The professor had said
nothing, but there was something, some lurking horror, in his dull, grey
eyes which had turned the ladies pale. “I am sorry,” said the missionary. “I can see that it is a painful
subject. I should not have asked.”

“No,” the Professor answered, slowly. “It is wiser not to ask. It is
better not to speak about such things at all. But surely those guns are
very much nearer?”

There could be no doubt of it. After a silence the thud-thud had
recommenced with a lively ripple of rifle-fire playing all round that
deep bass master-note. It must be just at the farther side of the
nearest hill. They pushed back their chairs and ran out to the ramparts. The silent-footed native servants came in and cleared the scanty remains
from the table. But after they had left, the old Professor sat on there,
his massive, grey-crowned head leaning upon his hands and the same
pensive look of horror in his eyes. Some ghosts may be laid for years,
but when they do rise it is not so easy to drive them back to their
slumbers. The guns had ceased outside, but he had not observed it, lost
as he was in the one supreme and terrible memory of his life. His thoughts were interrupted at last by the entrance of the Commandant. There was a complacent smile upon his broad German face. “The Kaiser will be pleased,” said he, rubbing his hands. “Yes,
certainly it should mean a decoration. ‘Defence of Ichau against the
Boxers by Colonel Dresler, late Major of the 114th Hanoverian Infantry. Splendid resistance of small garrison against overwhelming odds.’ It
will certainly appear in the Berlin papers.”

“Then you think we are saved?” said the old man, with neither emotion
nor exultation in his voice. The Colonel smiled.