As I walked down from the New Town to the railway before dawn, only a few Chinamen were astir, tripping ghoul-like hither and thither silently. Sentries paced to and fro, their great-coats and bashliks tight around them; rugged Cossacks patrolled the gloomy snow-flecked road; the half-finished buildings seemed ghastly ruins in the murky obscurity of awful night and awoke memories of horrid dreams--dreams of baffled efforts, dashed hopes, and numb despair. Before catching sight of the ever vigilant Tsintsius I noticed that the train of dining-saloon and sleeping cars, which had long been in a siding, had now an engine attached, and that engine under steam. Crossing the rails I saw huddled on the platform a party of about 200 Japanese refugees. Most were women, and crouching and huddled into groups for warmth. The few men were being unmercifully cuffed, beaten and kicked by the armed soldier guard in charge of them. All were bundled into covered waggons attached to the train, but I did not see what became of them. Probably they were sent by way of Dalny and Chifu to their own country. Even that morning the authorities were not anxious to convey me; at least, did not wish me to travel in the only car in which there was room. I told them they might put me off the train if they wished. I was indifferent and did not argue. I left that to Tsintsius. He maintained the discussion successfully until the train left the station and he passed from my horizon. My troubles were not quite at an end. We stayed at Nangalin junction. In the restaurant there were many officers and a few civilians. I was telling the latter some of the gossip of Port Arthur; how the circus had been broken up, the ponies drafted into Cossack stables, and how they danced in the streets when the band began to play, and so threw off their riders. I proceeded with other small talk, when I was interrupted by a bearded, be-spectacled officer behind me, asking suddenly in my own tongue, “You--are--English?” “Yes, thank God!” I answered. “Where are you going?” “Up north.” “Ah! Have you a permission?” “No. I have a ticket.” “Ah--no permission.” He retired to a corner, conferred with a number of officers, then returned to the attack. He would know why I left Port Arthur, why I was going to Newchwang, and a hundred other matters of no concern, all of which I answered with great candour. In the end, he and his council agreed that I might be allowed to proceed. On the platform outside, a large station guard had been drawn up. In addition there was a draft of the 13th Siberian Rifles, and a number of civilians carrying old Mauser rifles, belts, bayonets and ammunition pouches. They rallied round a triangular white standard on which the cryptic letters M.D. were embroidered in red.