At noon there was no apparent change. Our infantry remained in the same positions; some like locusts in the hollows; others behind the walls of Chentow; still more in the brown seams of the heights beyond the valley. Suddenly all eyes turned to the flowing contour of the ridge in front of Bastion Hill. The advance had begun. With heads bent, as in a hurricane, a company of Japanese were racing up a hill, on which were two trenches. Taking them in reverse, they charged the Russians, and shot them down before they seemed aware of the approach. The fight was short and sharp and bloody. Then they vanished. Presently I saw them again coming over the brow of the hill. They descended the slope to the saddle and threw themselves into a deep gully on the flank of another eminence. Here they lay to recover breath, and prepare for another charge. Out they came in a few minutes; at first a dozen, then six, then in twos and threes. Never were soldiers fleeter of foot than these brave Japanese, and never did men stand in greater need of speed and daring. Scattering, they ran, some to the right, others to the left--all making for the summit. Bullets swept over and around and among them. I could see the tiny spurts of yellow earth that rose in their path as the zip, zip, zip of lead lashed the air with invisible whips. One fell, and another and another. Would they ever gain the crest? We held our breath. Now they have returned to the left, and are lying down hugging the ground while the leaden storm sweeps over them. They are up again, and moving forward more slowly in extended irregular line. Half a dozen men are in front. They reach the summit. Then out of the earth spring grey forms to meet them. Rifles flash and the dark blue uniforms vanish. The noble six have fallen. But their comrades are advancing. Another second, and they appear on the crest. Again the grey figures rise--a steady resolute line tipped with steel. Back fall the Japanese. Even in that terrible moment they obey the voice of their officer, who stands before them with drawn sword. They have formed line. Their bayonets flash in the sunlight. Twenty paces divide the lines of grey and blue. In the twinkling of an eye they meet. One mad rush, and they are welded together in a grip that nothing save death can loosen. For a moment I see the thrusting of cold steel and the scorching flash of rifle. Then the grey line breaks into fragments and rolls out of sight. The dark blue uniforms draw closer together. Their ranks are thinned, yet they never look back. Again they move forward, and from a second trench springs another line of grey.