Lieutenant Wilson had instructed the midshipmen to make certain that the sentries did not fire first: the viceroy of the province was believed to be striving to hold the malcontents in check, but an untimely shot might precipitate hostilities. “If you are fired upon,” Phil ordered, “fire your piece and arouse the garrison, but don’t shoot unnecessarily.” “Aye, aye, sir,” the sailor answered, as the midshipman drew away up the wall to visit the next sentry. While Phil was crossing the stone archway over the heavily-barred iron gate, the main entrance into the mission, he was attracted by a dark object on the ground below him, close up to the metal doors. A closer look filled the boy’s thoughts with an unknown dread. The object appeared harmless enough, and yet why was it there against the gate of the mission? Phil saw now that it was a large box, outlined dimly in the shadow of the archway. He peered about him uncertainly. He could see the two lookouts at the wall’s corners; they were alert and yet in ignorance of the danger at the mission gate. The midshipman’s thoughts dwelt on the information given by the sentry with whom he had just spoken: there had been some Chinamen at the gate but a few moments ago! Was this box harmless or did its presence there foretell a warlike design against the hundreds of non-combatants, women and children, now under the protection of the American sailors? His startled gaze traveled over the gloomy expanse of surrounding country outside of the high wall: the shadowy mounds, graves of departed Chinese, dotting the grassy slopes about the compound might be now concealing an armed force of attacking fanatics; beyond the graves it rested for a moment on the low mud walls of abandoned houses, believed by their owners to be forever polluted by the close presence of the despised foreigners. Down on a lower level the high walled city lay sleeping; the closely packed roofs resembling a continuous floor, upon which fell the dim light of the waning moon; then again it descended to the silent waters of the river, the towering pagodas along its banks standing like guardian sentinels, with the anchored ships a phantom fleet upon its dark surface. A spark-like glint below him caught his eye, and its ominous message sent the blood from his heart. With every faculty alert Phil threw himself at full length on the wall and peered anxiously below into the deeper shadow of the gateway: a sputtering spark but a few feet away from the box told only too plainly its terrible mission: there was an explosive against the gates, and the crawling point of fire was the live end of the slow-match, surely and deliberately burning its way toward the captive force that would, in a fraction of a minute, hurl the powerful gates asunder, thus letting in the ambushing Chinese, doubtless watching and waiting, concealed in the misty shadows.