For half a mile or so we met occasional detachments of European troops, an odd enough _pot-pourri_ of armed men such as few people ever witness. They made a curious picture, did this soldiery in the deserted streets, for every detachment was loaded with pickings from Chinese houses, and some German mounted infantry, in addition to the great bundles strapped to their saddles, were driving in front of them a mixed herd of cattle, sheep and extra ponies which they had collected on the way. The men were in excellent humour, and jested and cursed as they hastened along, and in a thick cloud of dust raised by all these hoofs they finally disappeared round a corner. It was only when they were gone that I realised how silent and deserted the streets had become. Not a soul afoot, not a door ajar, not a dog--nothing. It might have been a city of the dead. After all the roar of rifle and cannon which had dulled the hearing of one's ears for so many days there was something awesome, unearthly and disconcerting in this terrified silence. What had happened to all the inhabitants? I had ridden forward slowly for a quarter of an hour or so, glancing keenly at the barred entrances which frowned on the great street, when suddenly I missed my men. My pony had carried me along the raised highway--the riding and driving road, which is separated from the sidewalks by huge open drains. My men had been across these drains, keeping close to the houses so that they could soon discover some sign of life. Then they had disappeared. That is all I could remember.