The Russian commander seemed astonished at this self-denial, but appreciated the motive that inspired the refusal of his gift. When they came out of the hovel General Stoessel mounted his white Arab and, exhibiting its paces, rode back to Port Arthur. As he passed from the compound into the street his glance rested for a second on a burial party. They were exhuming the bodies of comrades who had laid long in the shadow of the cottage. A week later--on the 12th--I saw General Stoessel once more. He was no longer on horseback. His herculean frame was wedged in a drosky and he was on the way to Dalny. In seven days he had grown older. His heavy face wore a strained and anxious look, and he had the manner of a man whose thoughts were not in the present. Such a look I have seen on the face of one who had gone through a fierce ordeal and was still doubtful of the issue--the face of a man waiting for the verdict. He was accompanied by his wife--a big, matronly woman--whose motherly eye glanced over a procession of orphans each armed with a doll. Madam Stoessel was in black, and over her head was thrown a black shawl. It was a pathetic little group, though somehow it reminded me of Mrs. Cronje, wife of the famous Boer general, who also in like circumstances showed a fine contempt for feminine adornments. The railway platform at Choreisei was crowded with smartly-dressed Russian officers and ladies, several of whom were in mourning. The long line of open trucks filled rapidly with baggage and soldiers and sailors on their way to prison in a foreign land. They appeared to have no anxiety save that which arose from the risk of being left behind. General Stoessel shook hands with some of his comrades and embraced his aides-de-camp, kissing them on both cheeks. As soon as he entered the saloon carriage the signal was given, and, amid profound silence, the defender of Port Arthur vanished from the scene. A veil of mist lay over the narrow peninsula on the morning of the 13th when I crossed the mountain range for the last time, and, descending into the valley, reached the main road to Port Arthur. Carts laden with personal baggage and droskies carrying Russian officers and ladies--healthy and cheerful--passed me on their way to Choreisei. Soldiers were mustering for review, and hills that for ten days had been silent as the grave awoke to a new and resounding life. Grim objects slipped by unheeded--trenches, barbed wire-entanglements, _chevaux de frise_, _trous de loups_, bomb proofs. They looked like familiar landmarks, and had ceased to be engines of death. At the gate leading to the Old Town stood a Japanese sentinel keeping watch over a park of field artillery. We crossed an open space guarded by immense earthworks, and came at last to the town of long narrow streets and low houses. The shutters were closed and the place was deserted save for a few hospital nurses and children.