"That's a good idea," I said, but I couldn't help thinking how little use he could ever have for that check as long as he was guarding us. It is said that just about this time the wife of a correspondent back in Tokio went trembling to the War-Office. "I have heard nothing from my husband," she said. "Tell me if he has been killed." The official was startled. "Impossible!" he said. I climbed the hill again to see how that battle was going on. The first line of "The Burial of Sir John Moore" will do for that battle. It wasn't going on, so one of the Guardsmen galloped ahead to learn what the trouble was with the Schedule, and for two long, chilly hours we huddled on that windy mole-hill, with no flash of gun in the distance, no puff of smoke high in the air. The Guardsman came back then. Kuropatkin had quietly sneaked away while we were sneaking for that hill, and the Japanese were after him. Thus passed the second day of the battle of Anshantien. At noon we were hitting the muddy trail again for another Chinese compound. Evidently we were getting nearer the front; the flies and fleas were thicker here, a dead pig protruded from a puddle of water in the centre of the compound, and there were odors about of man and horse, that suggested a recent occupation by troops. We policed the filthy enclosure that afternoon, and quite late the thunder of big guns began far away, while a yellow flame darted from the unseen sun, spread two mighty saffron wings through the heavens, fitted them together from earth and sky, and left them poised motionless, while from them stole slowly out the rich green-and-gold radiance that comes only after rain--drenching wet earth and still trees and quiet seas of corn. By and by crickets chirped, quiet stars shone out above the yellow, and the dusk came with a great calm--but it was the calm that presaged the storm of Liao-Yang. We had a serious consultation that night. The artists couldn't very well draw what they couldn't see. Some of us, not being military experts, and therefore dependent on mental pictures and incident for material, were equally helpless. Thus far the spoils of war had been battle-fields, empty trenches, a few wounded Japanese soldiers, and one Russian prisoner in a red shirt. So, hearing that General Oku feared for our safety, we sent him a round-robin relieving him of any responsibility on our account, and praying that we should be allowed to go closer to the fighting, or our occupation would be gone. Then we went to sleep.