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had partly closed following yesterday’s affray, had taken up his post on the driver’s seat, waiting in silence.
    Simon turned his gaze back to the missionary. He had now reached the Boxers, who immediately opened their ranks and allowed him to mingle with them. He stood out, tall and erect, in their midst, both hands held high, one of them holding his Bible. The Chinese had fallen silent now and the missionary’s voice could just be heard, speaking quite slowly and evenly and sounding even more mellifluous in Mandarin. To Fonthill, he cut a biblical figure, as though he were amedieval preacher addressing his flock. His mind went back to an old painting that had hung in his father’s study. The metaphor was made even more apt by the rapt, open faces of the young men surrounding him. Simon was reminded that they were peasants, many of them seemingly still in their teens. As far as he could see, few of them wore shoes or sandals. Violence suddenly seemed far away on this warm, sunlit morning.
    Suddenly, there was a sharp report from within the wagon and Fonthill swung around to see Gerald Griffith staring at the smoking barrel of his gun.
    ‘What the hell—?’ snarled Simon.
    ‘It just went off.’ The young man’s mouth hung open.
    The heads of everyone in the group turned towards the wagon and the scene froze for a split second. Then a chant began from the back of the rabble, ‘ Sha! Sha! Sha! ’
    ‘What does that mean?’ asked Alice, wide-eyed.
    ‘Means kill,’ called back Chang. ‘I think they come at us now.’
    ‘Reload your gun,’ Fonthill ordered Gerald. ‘Quickly now, man, for God’s sake.’
    The chant was taken up by the rest of the Boxers and Simon caught a momentary glimpse of Edward Griffith holding out his hands in a placatory gesture, when a sword flashed and he disappeared into the crowd.
    ‘Ah no!’ cried Alice.
    ‘Get to the front, Alice,’ shouted Simon.
    Several more swords were swung high in the middle of the crowd and then the Boxers turned towards the wagon. ‘Don’t fire yet, 352,’ yelled Fonthill. ‘I’ll try and warn them off.’
    He held up his free hand, palm facing outward towards the mob, and then fired his revolver above their heads.
    It had the reverse effect to that intended – indeed it seemed to act like the starting gun in a race, for the front row of the Boxers immediately produced swords and began to run towards the wagon.
    ‘Fire, Jenkins,’ cried Simon. There were only about sixty yards between the attackers and the defenders and Fonthill realised that he had only six shots with which to deter the charge, for there would be little time to reload. He took careful aim, fired and brought down the leading man. Cocking back the hammer with his thumb, he fired again, and then again and again. Behind him, he heard the bark of Alice’s automatic and the deeper report of the fowling piece.
    The front row of the attackers seemed to melt away and the second line tripped over five bodies on the ground and the remainder halted, their swords held aloft still truculently, but their aggression now replaced by indecision.
    In those few precious seconds, Simon thrust three more rounds into his Colt. Coolly, he aimed again and fired, then twice more. At almost the same time, he heard firing from the field to his right and glimpsed an erect Jenkins, hammering back the cocking mechanism of his revolver with his left hand as he let off round after round in rapid succession.
    It was enough. The surprise of the attack from the right – although at too great a distance for Jenkins’s handgun to be a killing piece – broke whatever resistance was left among the Boxers and they turned and fled back up the road from which they had come. In an amazinglyfew moments, they had shrunk to diminutive figures in the dusty distance. The attack was over almost as soon as it had begun.
     
    Fonthill leapt down from the wagon and ran towards where he could see the Reverend Griffith lying in