extracting them from this position that the heavy losses in guns and men were sustained at Hamatan. Chapter XIV AFTER THE BATTLE. The battle was over, and in the courtyard of a Manchurian house sat victor and vanquished. It was a strange and moving picture, such as Verestchagin might have painted. In the dark quadrangle flickered the embers of a wood fire, and around it were seated a prince and a soldier and his captives. The flame threw into relief the face of the soldier--a strong, clear-cut face--European rather than Oriental, over which a smile came readily. Between the firm-set lips glowed the red end of a cigar, without which General Kuroki is seldom seen. He sat at his ease, with cap pushed well over his forehead, and slippered feet crossed. The prince at his side was in full uniform, correct in every detail from spurs to sabretache, and his dark, immobile features wore an expression of intense solemnity. In the front of these two on the other side of the fire were seated three Russian officers--tall blonde men of Teutonic type, with fierce moustache, and the air of soldiers who know how to face death. They smoked and drank, and talked like comrades who had fought side by side and were telling to friendly ears the story of the passage of the Yalu. One of them--the fiercest of all--had taken the cigarette from his lips and paused with glass in hand to speak. “_Complêtement detruit_,” were the words he said. Around the circle of illuminated faces stood a group of soldiers in dark blue uniform. Some had rifles, that showed them to be the guard, but most of them had the intent look of men gazing at a spectacle that held thought in suspense. In the background, moving like shadows in the night, were armed men, whose faces bore the marks of exposure and fatigue. One little group stood near the low wall of a house examining the long line of Russian rifles that rested against the building. The stock of one had the deep dark stain of blood; the bayonet point of another was bent and broken, and the hands that gripped them that morning doubtless lay cold and stiff on the hills beyond. Officers came and went with lighted candles in their hands, leaving the darkness more intense as they passed hurriedly into houses that hummed like hives with the sound of voice and footfall. Into this ever-changing throng came presently two battle-stained soldiers bearing a wounded man, with another limping by his side. They laid their groaning burden on the ground, and a figure stirred under the red blanket. The hand of the wounded soldier rested on his breast where the shirt was crimson.