“In the room,” says an eye-witness, “we proceeded to examine the imperial curiosities, as we might have done those in a museum, but the French officers proceeded to ‘_arracher_’ everything they took a fancy to, gold watches and small valuables being thrust with amazing velocity into the capacious side pockets of their voluminous red pantaloons. Though the general asserted that nothing was to be touched till Sir Hope Grant arrived, yet the ‘looting’ of the famous Summer Palace went on. One French officer found a string of gorgeous pearls, each being the size of a marble, which he afterward foolishly sold at Hong Kong for £3000. Others had pencil-cases set with pure diamonds; others watches and vases thickly studded with pearls.” Again, “In an outhouse two carriages, presented to the Emperor Taon-Kwong by Lord Macartney, were found; and such a quantity of gold fell into the hands of the 15th Punjaubees that one officer alone got £9000.” The wilful destruction of the palace was a stern necessity. As Sir Garnet Wolseley, in his account of the war, says: “The destruction of the palace appears to have struck the Pekin authorities with awe. It was the stamp which gave an unmistakable reality to our work of vengeance, proving that Lord Elgin’s last letter was no idle threat, and warning them of what they might expect in the capital itself unless they accepted our proffered terms.” There is one incident regarding the conduct of one of the brave men who fought in this campaign, which is worth recording. Private Moyse of the Buffs was, with some Indian troops, taken prisoner near Sinho, and led before the Tartar general. Here the prisoners were ordered to _kow-tow_, the usual salutation from the lower classes in China to the higher classes, and which consists of kneeling down and touching the ground several times with the forehead. The native soldiers obeyed. Private Moyse refused, and was at once killed. The story has been touchingly poetised by Sir F. H. Doyle, under the title of “The Private of the Buffs.”[67] “Last night among his fellow roughs, He jested, quaffed, and swore, A drunken private of the Buffs Who never looked before. To-day, beneath the foeman’s frown, He stands in Elgin’s place, Ambassador from Britain’s crown, And type of all her race. Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, Bewildered, and alone; A heart with English instinct fraught, He yet can call his own. Ay, tear his body limb from limb, Bring cord or axe or flame, He only knows that not _through_ him Shall England come to shame. * * * * * Yes, honour calls, with strength like steel He put the vision by; Let dusky Indians whine and kneel, An English lad must die. And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, With knee to man unbent, Unfaltering on its dreadful brink To his red grave he went.