'Tell him to surrender,' Charlie said to Number One.
Number One did so, and the Boxer at once went down on his knees, and, bending forward, placed his forehead and the palms of his hands on the ground.
'Get some rope and bind him securely,' Charlie instructed Number One, who obeyed at once.
Several other Boxers had been sitting on top of the wall, watching the fight, and, when they saw that their comrades were getting the worst of it, instead of going to their help, they retired quickly to join the mob, which, however, had once more taken to flight. The gallant little band of defenders were, naturally, very pleased at their victory, which, alas! they soon discovered was very dearly bought. To their great grief, the veteran missionary, Mr. Wilkins, had been shot through the throat and was dead. Evidently the fatal wound had been received when he looked out to see if the Boxers really were climbing the wall. He was buried at sunset in a corner of the mission enclosure, and his death cast a gloom over the defenders.
Two weeks passed away, and there was still no news of the long-expected relief. Food was so scarce that it was indeed wonderful how the besieged managed to exist. Four of them had died, and were now lying in the little cemetery in the corner of the enclosure. Others were seriously ill, and it was feared that, unless relief came speedily, they, too, would soon succumb.
The Boxers had altered their plans on finding that they could not carry the mission buildings by assault, and now relied upon starving out the defenders. By day or by night scarcely a single Boxer was to be seen, although hundreds were within a stone's-throw. Every building that could be seen from the mission had a Boxer flag planted on it, and every house facing it had been fortified. From these houses the Boxers, day and night, fired on the mission, the residential part of which, except the basement, was in a ruined condition. To cross from the platforms to the mission house was a work of danger, for some trained Chinese soldiers, who had joined the Boxers, were by no means bad shots, and, as they could look down into the enclosure, they fired every time that one of the defenders was seen. They used a large amount of ammunition, but without drawing the fire of the missionaries and their friends.
Another week passed—the most disastrous that the besieged had gone through. Two more of them had died from fatigue, fever, and want of proper food. The mule which had drawn the missionaries' trap for some years, had been killed and skinned, and in the course of two or three days the last of it would be eaten. When that was gone there would not be an atom of food left. If it had not been for the women and children, the men would have made a sortie and died facing overwhelming odds.
'We must remain where we are for their sake,' Barton declared, and the rest agreed with him. Then they discussed how to make the remainder of the mule-flesh last a day or two longer than they hoped; but they were already on such short rations that it was almost impossible to reduce them.
'What's that?' Charlie exclaimed, suddenly. 'Didn't you hear anything?'
'Only those two shots which the Boxers fired,' Fred replied.