In truth it was a hard faith, morning, noon, and night, they prayed, morning, noon, and night, it seemed to me from the little meeting-house went up the sound of hymns and prayers, not even in Christian England, England that has held the faith for over a thousand years would so many services have been attended, could they expect it of the Chinese?
In the evening, when the night fell, we sat in the compound and talked, I, who was cold and reasonable, and they who were enthusiasts, for to them had come the call, that mysterious crying for the unknown that comes to all peoples and all classes, and is called by such different names.
“I have given myself to the Lord for China.” And outside the house the watchman beat his gong, not to frighten off thieves, as I at first thought, but to keep away the devils who help the “stealer man,” for he cannot alone carry out his nefarious designs, the wonks, the scavenger dogs made the night hideous by their howling, and the soldiers, of whom the town was full, sang their new war-song—wild and barbaric.
“I do not like it,” said she of the sad eyes and red lips, “I do not like it. It does not sound true.”
And I, who had not got to live there, did not like it either, but it was because it did sound to me true—it sounded fierce and merciless. What might not men, who sang like that, do?
“The Chinese soldier is a baby,” said a Chinese to me, but that is when he is among his own particular people at home.
“Chinese soldiers,” said another man, a foreigner, “are always robbers and banditti.”
And there is truth in that last statement, possibly there is truth in both, for children, unguided and unbridled, with the strength and passions of men, are dangerous to let loose upon a community.