They all joined in the shout “Banzai!” which means “Live for ever!” and then gave three lusty Saxon cheers, which brought out General Nogi, the Commander-in-Chief. He who for so many months had borne the grave responsibility of sending so many thousands to their death, he who had lost both his sons before Port Arthur, and tried so hard to conceal his grief, now beamed with joy at the sudden relief, and the lines that used to seam his forehead were smoothed out and almost invisible. A grand gentleman was Nogi, gentle and polite and kind to all. Who could have grudged him this triumph after so much sorrow and disappointment? He offered his hand, received their congratulations with dignity, and said with an under-current of sadness and a voice as soft as a woman’s: “I thank you all for staying with me through the dark days of disappointment and all the sorrowful hours of this terrible siege.” The proud spirit of the Samurai soldier seemed blended with the gentle feeling of the Buddhist. It was a touching sight to have seen. And how the news stirred the troops! Men broke into snatches of song, then shouted and yelled “Banzai!” until they choked. In the field-hospitals the wounded, trying to rise from their canvas stretchers, joined in the cheering with thin, weak voices. At night wood fires were lit all round the hills, and many of the Russian garrison left their dismal forts and came down to sip _saké_ (rice wine), and after spending a night of carousal with their late enemies, the big, burly foemen of the North were glad to be helped homewards by their polite hosts, who bowed on leaving them and hoped they would not suffer from the after-effects of Japanese hospitality. Astonishing, too, was the effect of the good news on the wounded. Desperately wounded men crawled over the stony hills and walked to the hospitals without aid. If you said to one such, “You are badly hurt; let me give you an arm,” he smiled proudly, and said with a salute, “No, no; Port Arthur has fallen!” One man who had been shot in the head, and whose right arm had been smashed to pieces by a shell, walked to the dressing-station, had his arm amputated and his head dressed, and then walked two miles further to the field-hospital. The news was too good for him to think of his own pain. Another man had a bullet through his chest. He walked two miles to the hospital; there he coolly asked the surgeon if he thought he might live. The surgeon, though he knew the man’s case was hopeless, said, “Oh yes; but” (after a pause) “if you have any letter you wish written, do it at once.” The soldier replied, “All I desire is that a letter should be written to my mother.” No sooner had he uttered these words than he fell dead on the spot. It reminds one of a young Lieutenant in Browning’s poem, who had ridden with dispatches to Napoleon. “Why, my boy, you are wounded!” “Nay, sire; I am killed.”