one which has had neither death nor sickness on board, even in crossing the Red Sea.

Now the sun has risen clear above the horizon, a yellow disk which slowly climbs upward from behind the quiet waters. For us, who have just left equatorial regions, this rising, luminous as it is, has I know not what of melancholy and of dulness, which savors of autumn and a northern climate. Really in two or three days the sun has changed. Now it no longer burns, it is no longer dangerous, we cease to fear it.

In front of us, from out the cloud of coal smoke, far-off objects begin to emerge, perceptible only to the eye of the mariner; a forest of spears, one should say, planted away off at the end of space, almost beyond the range of vision. We know what they are,—the giant chimneys, the heavy fighting masts, the terrible paraphernalia of warfare, which, with the smoke, reveal from afar the modern squadron. When our morning cleaning is over, when everything has been washed with buckets of sea water, the Redoutable increases her speed to the average of eleven and a half knots an hour, which she has maintained since her departure from France. And while the sailors are busy making the brass and copper shine, she begins again to trace her deep furrow through the tranquil waters.

Objects on the smoky horizon line begin to stand forth and take shape. Below the innumerable masts, masses of every form and color are distinguishable. These are the ships themselves. Between the calm water and the pale sky lies the whole terrible company, an assemblage of strange monsters, some white and yellow, others white and black, others the color of slime or of fog, in order to make them less easily distinguishable. Their backs are humped and their sides half submerged and hidden like big uneasy turtles. Their structures vary according to the conceptions of different persons in regard to engines of destruction, but all alike breathe forth horrible coal smoke, which dulls the morning light.

No more of the coast of China is visible than if we were a thousand leagues away or than if it did not exist. Yet we are close to Taku, the meeting-place toward which for so many days our minds have been bent. It is China, close by although invisible, which attracts by its nearness this herd of beasts of prey, and which keeps them as immovable as fallow deer at bay, at this precise point on the seas, until some one speaks the word.

The water, here where it is less deep, has lost its beautiful blue, to which we have so long been accustomed, and has become troubled and yellow, and the sky, although cloudless, is decidedly melancholy. Our first impression of this whole scene, of which we shall undoubtedly for a long time form a part, is one of sadness.

But now as we draw nearer and the sun rises there is a change, and the beautiful shining iron-clads with their many-colored flags begin to stand out. It is indeed a remarkable squadron that here represents Europe,—Europe armed against gloomy old China. It occupies an infinite amount of space, the whole horizon seems crowded with ships, and small boats—little steam tugs—hurry like busy people among the big motionless vessels.

Now cannon on all sides begin a military welcome for our admiral, beneath the heavy curtain of black smoke; the gay light smoke from powder blossoms like sheaves and goes off in white masses, while up and down the iron masts the tricolor rises and falls in our honor. Everywhere trumpets sound, foreign bands play our Marseillaise,—one is more or less intoxicated with this ceremonial, always the same yet always superb, which here borrows an unaccustomed magnificence on account of the display of the fleet.

And now the sun is at last awake and shining, adding to the day of our arrival a last illusion of midsummer heat, in this country of extreme seasons; in two months' time it will begin to freeze up for a long winter.

When evening comes, our eyes, which will weary of it soon enough, are feasted upon a grand fairy-like spectacle, given for us by the squadron. Suddenly electric lights appear on all sides, white, or green, or red, twinkling and sparkling in a dazzling manner; the big ships, by means of a play of lights, converse with one another, and the water reflects thousands of signals, thousands of lights, while the rockets race for the horizon or pass through the sky like delirious comets. One forgets all that breeds death and destruction in this phantasmagoria, and for the moment feels oneself in the midst of a great city, with towers, minarets, palaces, improvised in this part of the world especially for this extravagant nocturnal celebration.

It is only the next day and yet everything is different. A breeze came up in the morning,—hardly a breeze, just enough to spread over the sea big vague plumes of smoke. Already furrows are being made in this open and not very deep roadstead, and the small boats, continually going and coming, bob up and down bathed in spray.

A ship with the German colors appears upon the horizon just as we appeared yesterday; it is immediately recognized as the Herta, bringing Field-Marshal von Waldersee, the last one of the military commanders expected at this meeting-place of the Allies. The salutes that yesterday were for us, begin anew for him, the whole magnificent ceremony is repeated. Again the cannon give forth clouds of smoke, mingling tufts of white with the denser variety, and the national air of Germany is taken up by all the bands, and borne on the rising wind.

The wind whistles stronger, stronger and colder; a bad autumn wind, that plays about the whalers and the tugs, which yesterday circulated readily among the various groups of the squadron.

It presages difficult days for us, for in this uncertain harbor, which in an hour's time becomes dangerous, we shall have to land thousands of soldiers sent from France and thousands of tons of war supplies. Many people and many things must be moved over this rough water, in barges or in small boats, in the cold and even in the night, and must be taken to Taku across the river's changing bar.

To organize this long and perilous undertaking is to be our task—that of the marines—during the first few months, an austere, exhausting, and obscure rôle without apparent glory.

II
AT NING-HIA

In the gulf of Petchili on the beach at Ning-Hia, lighted by the rising sun. Here are sloops, tugs, whalers, junks, their prows in the sand, landing soldiers and war supplies at the foot of an immense fort whose guns are silent. On this shore there is a confusion and a babel such as has been seen in no other epoch of history. From these boats where so many people are disembarking, float pell-mell all the flags of Europe.

The shore is wooded with birches and willows, and in the distance mountains with strange outlines raise their peaks to the clear sky. There are only northern trees, showing that the winters in this country are cold, and yet the morning sun is already burning; the far-off peaks are magnificently violet, the sun shines as in Provence. Standing about among the sacks of earth collected for the erection of hasty defences, are all kinds of people. There are Cossacks, Austrians, Germans, English midshipmen, alongside of our armed sailors; little Japanese soldiers, with a surprisingly good military bearing in their new European uniforms; fair ladies of the Russian Red-Cross Society, busy unpacking material for the ambulances; and Bersaglieri from Naples,