It did no good, unluckily; things had gone so far by this time that they must go still farther with inevitable motion, and whatever Li himself thought of the insane idea of attempting to exterminate foreigners, he could do nothing to stem the tide of mistaken Boxer patriotism.

On the 13th the telegraph wires were cut; and on the 19th an ultimatum arrived from the Yamen giving the foreigners twenty-four hours to leave Peking, and offering to convoy them with Chinese troops as far as Tientsin.  The Ministers held meeting after meeting; they were somewhat shaken, but, still trustful, determined to accept the Chinese Government’s offer of an escort as far as the sea.  Against this proposal, however, the non-diplomatic community threw the whole weight of its disapproval, fortunately—­as things turned out—­overbearing it, since the Chinese Government, with the best will in the world, was not at that moment in a position to assure the safety of any one.  The very best proof of this, if further proof were needed, was the murder of Baron von Ketteler, the German Minister, on the morning of June 20th.

The shock of that news filled the community with horror and consternation.  The suddenness of the tragedy, the treachery of it, were appalling.  Plainly no protection could be hoped for, and the same afternoon all non-combatants were ordered into the British Legation, as that was the largest compound in Peking, and the one most suitable for a last stand should the worst come to the worst.  The I.G., of course, went with the rest.  If it cost him anything to calmly walk out of the house he had occupied for years, leaving all behind him—­he took a last look around the rooms, I remember, as though to impress their picture on his mind—­he gave no sign, just as he showed none of the natural alarm which, with his responsibility for a large staff with wives and children, he must have felt.

[Illustration:  By the courtesy of “The Pall Mall Magazine”

SIR ROBERT HART IN HIS PRIVATE OFFICE.]

The history of the Siege proper, like the history of the Taiping Rebellion, has been written a hundred times.  Praise and blame have been variously distributed; flaws picked in one another’s behaviour by a dozen eye-witnesses, but it is not my purpose to attempt to arbitrate over details which each man naturally sees through his own glasses.  Only so far as the I.G. was personally concerned with the events of those two unhappy months need they be touched upon here.

At first the wildest confusion prevailed in the Legation.  Misunderstandings about where a final stand should be made, doubts whether it should be made in Peking at all, had delayed very necessary preparations.  There was not shelter for all the refugees, and some literally camped under the big ting-erhs (open pavilions with roofs but no side walls), their hastily collected household goods lying around them.  The Customs, however, fared better than that; they were given a small house, into which they packed themselves as best they could.  The I.G., who refused to accept any special privileges, slept in a tiny back room and cheerfully ate the mule, which was hatefully coarse while it was fat and unutterably tough when it grew lean.  Indeed, his marvellous adaptability to difficult conditions was soon the talk of that little company.