Under the Tartar Wall, as I climbed again to the ground-level, I met the head of fresh columns of men. This time they were white troops--French Infanterie Coloniale, in dusty blue suits of torn and discoloured Nankeen. There must have been thousands of them, for after some delay they got into movement, and, enveloped in thick clouds of dust, these solid companies of blue uniforms, crowned with dirty-white helmets, started filing past me in an endless stream. The officers were riding up and down the line, calling on the men to exert themselves, and to hurry, hurry, hurry. But the rank and file were pitifully exhausted, and their white, drawn faces spoke only of the fever-haunted swamps of Tonkin, whence they had been summoned to participate in this frantic march on the capital. They had always been behind, I heard, and had only been hurried up by constant forced marching, which left the men mutinous and valueless. Once again they were being hurried not to be too late.... I only lost these troops to find myself crushed in by long lines of mountain artillery carried on mules, and led by strange-looking Annamites. In a thin line they stretched away until I could only divine how many there were. These batteries, however, were not going forward, and to my surprise I found the guns being suddenly loaded and hauled to the top of the Tartar Wall up one of the ramparts which had been our salvation. This was a new development, and in my interest, forgetting my pony, I ran up, too. Up there I found a mass of people, mostly comprising those who had been spectators rather than actors in the siege. I remember being seized with strange feelings when I saw their little air of derision and their sneers as they looked down towards the Palace in pleasurable anticipation. They imagined, these self-satisfied people who had done so little to defend themselves, that a day of reckoning had at last come when they would be able to do as they liked towards this detestable Palace, which had given them so many unhappy hours. It would all be destroyed, burned. Little did they know! Soon enough these small French batteries of light guns came into action, and sent a stream of little shells into the Palace enclosures a couple of thousand yards away. The majority pitched on the gaudy roofs of Imperial pavilions far inside the Palace grounds, bursting into pretty little fleecy clouds, and starting small smouldering fires that suddenly died down before they had done much damage. But a number fell short, and swept enclosures where I knew American soldiery had already penetrated. I drew my breath, but said nothing....