Long and weary were those August days in Shanhaikwan. Noreen lived for the end of the battle, and with a prayer that it would end the war and bring in--all the correspondents. Over and over she mapped the war-country in her mind, with a lone horseman shutting out her view of armies. There were moments at night in which she felt that Routledge-san was not far away--even Liaoyang was less than three hundred miles away.... Those last days of the month--only a woman can bear such terrors of tension. Each night-train now brought vagrant sentences from the field, bearing upon the unparalleled sacrifices of men by the Japanese. Throughout August thirty-first, Shanhaikwan waited expectantly for a decision from the battle, but when the night-train was in the Russians were still holding. Late in the afternoon of September first, Talliaferro sought Miss Cardinegh bringing an exciting rumor that the Japanese had won the battle and the city. “There’s another thing,” he added. “The English agent of the trading company here--the man of whom you don’t approve--has heard from Bingley. He will be in from Wangcheng to-night, and something big is up. Bingley has called for a horse to meet him at the train--a fast horse. I’ll wager there’s an American correspondent on the train, Miss Cardinegh, and that the ‘Horse-killer’ plans to beat him to the cable-office in the half-mile from the station. He wouldn’t wire for a horse if he were alone. Another matter. Borden, the American Combined Press man here, looks to have something big under cover. Altogether, I think there’ll be great stuff on the cable to-night. The chief trouble is, there won’t be any core--to Bingley’s apple.... I’ll call for you in a half-hour--if I may--and we’ll walk down to the train together.” “Thank you. Of course,” she answered.... That half-hour pulled a big tribute of nervous energy. Noreen did not know what to think, but she fought back hope with all the strength which months of self-war had given.... The train appeared at last through the gap in the Great Wall--cleared torturingly slow in the twilight. Talliaferro directed her eyes to two saddle-horses on the platform. Borden, the American, was in touch with a China-boy who held a black stallion of notorious prowess.... She hardly noted. The train held her eyes. Her throat was dry--her heart stormed with emotion.... She did not scream. Routledge hung far out from the platform--searching to locate his mount. She covered her face in her parasol.... This was the end of a race from the field with Bingley.... She choked back her heart’s cry, lest it complicate. Routledge sped past her--leaped with a laugh into the saddle of the black stallion. His eye swept the crowd--but the yellow silk of the parasol shielded her face. He spurred off toward the cable-office--with Bingley thundering behind on a gray mount.... Not till then did she dare to scream: “Win! Ride to win, Routledge-san!”