Emerging from the building, we walked along by the low wall and carved balustrade bounding the water, towards the side above which stood the Empress‐Dowager’s temple. At the corner of the lake was a gateway, at which stood a guard of Bersagliere, clad in white with cocks’ feathers fluttering gaily in their tropical helmets. The Italians, as I have said, were joined with the English in the charge of the Summer Palace. Returning the sentry’s salute, we passed on and found a roofed and open‐pillared gallery running along beside the lake. Its shelter was grateful in the burning sun; for the breeze was cut off by the hill that rose almost perpendicularly above us. The slender, wooden columns supporting the tiled roof were painted in brightly coloured designs. On the cornices were miniature pictures of conventional Chinese scenery. Here and there the gallery widened out or passed close to pretty little summer‐houses built above the wall of the lake. We reached the square white mass of masonry on which stood the temple. Before it massive gates, guarded by bronze lions, opened on a broad staircase leading to the foot of the substructure. But reserving the sacred edifice, which towered above us at an appalling height, for a later visit after lunch, we passed on around the lake until we reached the strangest construction in the Summer Palace. [Illustration: THE MARBLE JUNK [_page_ 127] One of the former Empresses, whose life had been passed far from the sea, complained that she had never beheld a ship. So a cunning architect was found, who built in the lake close to the bank an enormous marble junk. The hull, which has ornamented prow and stern and small paddle‐boxes, rests, of course, on the bottom. On the deck he erected a large two‐storied pavilion; but as the Chinese are seldom thorough, this he constructed of wood painted to look like marble. It formed an ideal and picturesque summer‐house, for the sides, between the pillars, were open or closed only by blinds. But at the time of our visit it looked dismally dilapidated; for the paint was blistered and peeling off. The Marble Junk resembles a white house‐boat at Henley, and at a little distance across the water looks quaint and graceful. Close to it, spanning a small stream that runs into the lake, is a lovely little covered bridge with carved white marble arches and parapets. Venice can boast no more perfect gem of art on its canals. Our conductor, looking at his watch, tore us from our contemplation of this masterpiece and insisted on our returning to the mess for lunch. And in the pavilion where the powerless monarch of a mighty empire had lain a helpless prisoner, a victim to the intrigues of his own family, British officers sat at table; and the conversation ranged from the events of the campaign to sport in India or criticisms of the various contingents of the Allied Army.