Father and son were staring curiously at each other.
"Is it possible that you are my own little Rob?" gasped the former.
"Are you really my father?" interrogated Rob, gazing doubtfully at the white-headed man who now was said to be the same young, dark-haired parent that had bidden him farewell in America years before.
"If you are Rob," continued Dr. Hinckley, huskily, "tell me what has become of my wife—your mother. Is she alive or dead?"
"She is alive and safe in Cheng-Ting-Fu."
"Thank God! Thank God!" cried the overjoyed man, with tears rolling down his cheeks. "But, Rob—Good Heavens!"
With this he sprang forward and caught the lad, who was tottering and evidently about to fall. Loss of blood from his wound, strain, excitement, and exhaustion—all had done their work—and everything swam before his failing sight as his surgeon-father gently laid him down.
The next day, when the relieving army, which had fought its way mile by mile from the distant sea, made its final dash for Pekin, Rob Hinckley followed it in an ambulance, tossing and muttering incoherently in the unconsciousness of a high fever.
Within the city the excitement on that memorable 13th of August was intense. Foreign guns thundered against its massive walls and stout gates from noon until dark, while from the lofty battlements swarms of Chinese sharp-shooters replied with so furious a rifle-fire that none dared cross the death-swept zone.
Inside the walls the bombardment of the legation defences was continuous all that day and all through the night that followed. Nor were the besieged foreigners silent; but through the long hours the baying of their Nordenfeldt gun, the vicious barking of their Colt's automatic, the growl of "Old Betsy," the Chinese six-pounder that they had found and converted to their own use, and the sharp yelping of their rifle-fire were heard unceasingly.