The moon had set and the land about the mission was veiled in darkness. The men moved slowly along the wall of the compound, while Langdon’s keen eyes peered into the night to discover the best location to leave the mission. They had traversed nearly half of the wall and were at the far end of the compound before the pilot seemed satisfied that the way was clear. He put out his hand and touched Phil on the shoulder. “We’ll leave from here,” he whispered; “the Chinese, if they are about, are all in the front. See; the land is clearer; there are not so many graves as in the front to conceal an enemy.” Throwing themselves down on top of the wall they grasped its edge, and lowered themselves silently to the ground. Langdon led the way directly from the mission, and further into the country. The land here was but slightly cultivated, the ground firm and for the most part clear, so our travelers swung along at a lively pace. Having covered about a mile, Langdon stopped to allow his companions to join him. “This is the main road leading into the city,” the pilot informed them as they arrived at the narrow path in which the speaker was standing. “We’ll follow this right into the foreign concession; it’s late, past ten o’clock, and there’ll be no natives on the road. It’s our safest course.” Phil nodded in sign of assent, his eyes on the Chinese road. “A road, did you say, Langdon?” the boy asked; “it’s more like a bridle-path.” “It’s the only kind of road you’ll find in the Chinese Empire,” the pilot replied as they moved swiftly over its uneven surface; “the natives don’t use carriages and coaches for passengers, nor wagons to carry their freight, but transport their merchandise in wheelbarrows or on the backs of the small Tartar donkeys. In the north the Manchus have a rickety cart drawn by man power or by pony and there the highways are wider, but are even less smooth, for the natives never repair their roads.” They had traveled another mile when Langdon called a halt and cautioning silence pointed to a grove of trees ahead of them. “A village,” he answered the questioning looks of his companions; “we’ll leave the road and circle it. The wind is from the river, so I hope the dogs which inhabit these small towns will not smell us. These Chinese curs have a keen nose for a foreigner and if our enemy is about they might warn him of our presence.” As they skirted the village Sydney glanced with interest down into the mean and ill-smelling collection of mud-walled hovels, situated below the level of the surrounding country. He had heard that this location was chosen to protect its occupants from the blasts of the winter gales, and in consequence during the wet season the floods from the heavy and prolonged rains swept down upon them, carrying off bodily their insecure buildings and frequently drowning many of the unfortunate inhabitants. “Will the Chinese ever learn to build their villages in a common-sense way?” he asked the pilot.