The roar increased in vigour, and then hundreds of torches, dancing
like will-o'-the-wisps in front of our straining eyes, appeared far
down the Wang-ta, or so-called Customs Street, which separates Sir
R---- H----'s Inspectorate from the Austrian Legation. They were less
than a thousand yards away. The Boxers, casting discretion to the
winds, appeared to be once more advancing on the Legations. But then
came a shout from the Austrian Legation, some hoarse cries in guttural
German, and the big gates of the Legation were thrown open near us.
The night was inky black, and you could see nothing. A confused
banging of feet followed, then some more orders, and with a rattling
of gun-wheels a machine-gun was run out and planted in the very centre
of the street.

"At two thousand yards," sang out the naval lieutenant unexpectedly
and jarringly as we stood watching, "slow fire."

I was surprised at such decision. _Tang, tang, tang, tang, tang_, spat
the machine-gun in the black night, now rasping out bullets at the
rate of three hundred a minute, as the gunner under the excitement of
the hour and his surroundings forgot his instructions, now steadying
to a slow second fire. This was something like a counter-excitement;
we were beginning to speak at last. We were delighted. It was not so
much the gun reports which thrilled us as the resonant echoes which,
crackling like very dry fagots in a fierce fire as the bullets sped
down the long, straight street, made us realise their destroying
power. Have you ever heard a high-velocity machine-gun firing down
deserted and gloomy thorough-fares? It crackles all over your body in
electrical shocks as powerful as those of a galvanic battery; it
stimulates the brain as nothing else can do; it is extraordinary.