AFTER sweeping the armed Chinese hordes from Corea, the Emperor of Japan sent twenty-three thousand of his brave little men to conquer China -- a rich and venerable empire of four hundred million inhabitants -- and they did it.

The steamer that carried General Hasagawa and his brigade of Kumomoto troops, to join the army of invasion on the Manchurian coast afforded endless entertainment to Frederic Villiers and me. The queer war dances and singing processions of the Japanese soldiers kept the British war artist busy at his sketch-book. Yet there was an inexpressible sense of order and neatness in all parts of the crowded troop ship, a feeling of law and obedience that surpassed anything I have seen on an American or European transport.

When we reached the coast of Manchuria, a bleak stretch of uninteresting shore, backed by treeless hills and dotted here and there with tile-roofed farmhouses, the whole Japanese force -- men, horses, ammunition, food, and cannons -- was carried to the land in little flat skiffs. It was a marvellous feat.

But the most extraordinary thing about our landing was the appearance of hundreds of smiling, tall Manchurians, who waded out in the shallow sea and helped to pull the boats of the invaders ashore. It was not fear that induced the pig-tailed giants to assist in the invasion of their soil, but a mere absence of national sentiment. We saw abundant signs of this spirit of indifference afterward, and that day the Japanese laughed heartily at the lack of patriotism in Manchuria, and predicted the swift collapse of China.

"We will take the Emperor from Peking in chains within three months," said one of Hasagawa's colonels as he rode through the mud on the shoulders of a cheerful native, playfully tickling the fellow's thighs with his spurs.

All along the coast could be seen the steamers from which the main Japanese army, commanded by Field-marshal Count Oyama, had just landed, and the great fleet of warships which had convoyed the invaders across the Yellow Sea.

We were now in the Liatong peninsula, the ancient home of the once dreaded hosts of Manchurian horsemen, who imposed their own pigtail on the Chinese as a sign of conquest.

As the field-marshal had moved on to attack the walled city of Kinchow and the seven great forts of Talien-wan, which lay between us and Port Arthur, the mightiest fortress in Asia, we were bound to follow at once and overtake him before the fighting began.

Mounted on little ponies, borrowed from a Japanese officer, Mr. Villiers and I rode along the track of the advancing army, leaving our interpreters and baggage to catch up with us in any way they could.

All day we moved through a desolate country, almost barren of trees, with now and then a few acres of rice or corn or millet growing in the level ground between the rocky hills -- the well-built little houses and the tawdry Buddhist shrines on the roadside deserted, windows and doors smashed and the small gardens trampled flat.

At night we could see the flames of burning settlements, and several times we rode through the smouldering ruins of Manchurian villages, with none to greet us but troops of starving, howling dogs, snapping at the legs of our ponies, until a revolver shot would rid us of their attentions.

As the night wore on and our ponies showed signs of exhaustion, Mr. Villiers decided to join a coolie camp for food and rest until the morning. I did not dare to stop. An artist might tarry on the road and gather materials for his pencil, but a correspondent, responsible for the news, must not halt. The field-marshal was ahead, and with him there might be rival correspondents. Who knew what might happen that very night? The clatter of my pony's hoofs seemed to intensify the loneliness of the way as I pressed on, leaving my experienced comrade to find sleep on the hard roadside. An hour later I passed a dead Manchurian peasant lying with ghastly upturned face beside the glowing ashes of a farmhouse. The country grew more desolate. The moon sank. It was hard to find the way. Again and again I had to dismount and, with my bull's-eye lantern, seek out the trampled track of the army. Once in a while I could hear the faint clink-clank of the Japanese soldiers working somewhere near the road on the field telegraph line. Presently a mounted Japanese courier dashed by me in the darkness, shouting something I could not understand.

Now there was no sign of life anywhere, no friendly light, and no sound but the beating of my tired animal's feet. My pony began to stumble. Twice I lost the road. There was danger that I had ridden too far and was on hostile ground. The darkness prevented me from seeing the surrounding country. I dismounted and examined the road with my lantern. There was not a trace of the army to be seen. My heart sank. What with hunger and the fatigue of my terrible ride, I was ready to sink to the ground. I tried to mount my pony again, but the poor beast went on his knees.

At that moment I heard the harsh challenge of a Japanese sentry, and with an answering cry of "Nippon!" ("Japan!") I ran forward to find myself on the outmost picket line of Oyama's escort. Presently an officer appeared, and I explained in French that I was in search of the field-marshal. He told me that I had ridden two miles beyond the headquarters, and sent a soldier to lead my horse as I retraced my way.

When I reached the farmhouse where the field-marshal slept, I was glad to crawl under a blanket between two hospitable staff officers lying on a wooden couch. They sleepily informed me that nothing important had happened, but that the advance brigade, which was ahead of us, would attack the walls of Kinchow the next day. Thank God! I was not too late. In a minute I was fast asleep.

Daybreak found us in the saddle, with the fat Japanese field-marshal, a good-natured, kindly old politician, riding at the head of his staff. As we moved forward, a courier arrived from the front with news that the advance guard was in sight of Kinchow. We spurred our horses and pressed on with all possible speed. At noon we halted under a huge pine tree and lunched with the field-marshal, who passed about a tin pail of dried peas roasted over a fire. Each man took a handful of peas and crunched them under his teeth.

"It is all we have," said Count Oyama, laughingly, "but eat heartily, gentlemen; if we capture Kinchow, we shall fare better to-night."

A sudden sound of heavy cannon firing in the distance interrupted the frugal meal. The fight at Kinchow had begun. Every man leaped to his saddle, and off we went at a gallop. But, alas, when we reached the scene of the battle, Kinchow had been taken. The little walled city founded by Manchurian warriors three hundred years before had been abandoned after an artillery duel of an hour, and we rode through the dynamite-shattered city gate to see the pavements stained with the blood of a few women, children, and old men, accidentally killed by shell fire, and the terrified inhabitants kowtowing on their knees to their conquerors.

We passed right through the city, and in the plain beyond we found the reserves of General Yamaji's division. The famous one-eyed division commander -- the most terrible personality and the best fighter in the Japanese army -- had ordered Noghi's and Nishi's brigades to attack the seven immense forts surrounding Talien Bay, six miles from Kinchow, -- mighty masses of masonry, carrying forty- and fifty-ton Krupp rifles and protected by earthworks, descending at some points almost perpendicularly into the sea from a height of three hundred feet. These works were a triumph of German engineering and military science -- massive, impenetrable, connected at all angles by telephones, and guarded against naval attacks by a harbor thickly strewn with torpedoes.

There were three positions to be attacked. On the left of the bay was Fort Jokasan, with five five-inch rifles commanding the water; and a mighty redoubt, with three-inch Krupp field pieces covering the land approach. To the right of the bay, on the hills, were three large forts, -- Seidaisan, Cosan, and Lo-Orrian. The first two were armed with six- and seven-inch Krupp guns, and the third with six- and eight-inch Creusot guns. Stretching out in the middle of the bay was a tongue of rocky country ending in a high hill, on which were built the three powerful Oshozima forts, defended by six- and seven-inch Krupp guns.

A thrill of expectant fear ran through the army as the great guns of Jokasan were turned upon the advancing Japanese regiment on the left of our line. For two hours the hills shook with the shock of the battery. All the other guns in the chain of forts surrounding the harbor were sending shells wildly about the country. The regiment attacking Jokasan advanced at a double-quick. Then it charged. The Japanese first reached three large intrenched earthworks, from which came a sputtering musketry fire. Two or three quick volleys were fired, and a few Chinese soldiers were seen dashing away from the earthworks, stripping off their uniforms as they ran.

Suddenly the guns of Jokasan were silent. The Japanese fixed bayonets and made a charge up the huge mass of masonry and earthworks, only to find the stronghold absolutely vacant. The gunners had crossed the bay in small boats, and the rest of the garrison had sneaked away along the shore. The great fort with its magnificent guns and enormous stores of ammunition had been surrendered almost without a blow. It was an astounding situation -- so inexplicable that General Yamaji suspected a masked movement. But that ended the battle for the night.

I slept that night in a Kinchow shop, lying down in the darkness on a soft wreck of merchandise, and when I awoke at daybreak I found myself stretched out on heaps of embroidered silks, with mandarins' hats and boots and wonderful jackets and glittering ornaments scattered about in brilliant confusion, my pillow being a painted wooden monster without a head. It was like fairyland to awaken in such a scene of shimmering splendor. But I must confess that the most glorious thing in that room was a plain tin of Chicago corned beef. Such is the coarse nature of a war correspondent after a forced march on dried peas and water.

All night Noghi's brigade had waited at the approach to the three Oshozima forts. Here great slaughter was expected. When there was light enough to move, the advance began across a wrinkled, stony valley. A terrific sound of gongs and drums was heard in the forts, and the brigade halted for a few minutes. The fact was that the Chinese had abandoned Oshozima during the night. They had sent back forty or fifty soldiers to secure the personal property of the officers. These men were surprised by the Japanese, and hoping to frighten the enemy and gain time, they were pounding the alarm apparatus in the forts. The Japanese line swept straight up the giant escarpments, but not a gun was fired. They began to realize that there was no enemy before them. Here and there they could see a Chinaman skulking away.

Then the great batteries of Lo-Orisan, on the right side of the bay, began to pour shells into Oshozima. Nishi's brigade boldly advanced against the three forts. For three hours there was a deafening cannonade. We could see the shells from the Creusot rifles exploding all along the hillside. But every shell went wide of the mark. The Chinese gunners ran wildly up and down behind the ramparts of the forts. When the Japanese skirmish line got within range, and their bullets began to patter over the Chinese guns, the garrison of the fort ran down the hillsides and fled toward Port Arthur.

So the seven great modern strongholds of Talien-Wan fell into the hands of Japan. By nine o'clock in the morning all was over, and a position which two regiments might have held against a whole army was given up.

As the Japanese troops were advancing against Oshozima, I rode with General Yamaji and his staff into one of the smaller entrenched works on the plain below. A Chinese shell, exploding near me, wounded my horse and threw me to the ground, breaking one of my ribs and injuring my knee. In that condition I had to ride back to Kinchow. The wounds were not serious, but the bandages which the Japanese surgeons applied were fearfully impressive, and when Mr. Villiers arrived that night -- after losing his horse and walking thirty miles over the hills to find me swathed like a hero -- he looked absolutely envious.

The next day, the white-bearded, blue-clad giant who owned the place returned and knelt down to thank us for letting him sit down in his own house. We gave him a bottle of champagne, which the field-marshal had sent to us with a pair of live chickens. The old Manchurian sniffed at the foaming wine and eyed us suspiciously. Were we trying to poison him? He raised the cup again and again to his lips, shivered and set it down without tasting. Then he swallowed the cupful and waited for the sensation. His dark eyes rolled upward and his face softened. An expression of ineffable peace came into his aged countenance. Putting the bottle to his lips, he drained it, smacked his lips, and crossed his bony hands on his stomach contentedly. His eyes brightened, his cheeks grew rosy. Death had no terrors now.

"Where do you get it?" he said to our interpreter.

"In France."

"How far away is that country? How long does it take to get there?"

Two days later, we took a walk on top of the great wall that ran around the stricken town and saw a sight of horror.

Seven women and three little girls were dragged out of a well in an old garden, and laid stiff and dripping among the faded flowers and drifting leaves. They had drowned themselves when the Japanese began to shell the place, fearing the fate that befalls women after Asiatic victories.

There they lay, entwined together in a last embrace, a silent memorial of the virtue of Manchurian women. Four were the wives of prominent men; the others were their daughters and servants.

The victorious army went rumbling on through the streets -- horses, men, baggage carts, cannon -- and the brilliant pageantry of the field-marshal's staff swept around the corner. But none saw the ten stark figures in the high-walled Chinese garden; none save a group of tearful men, too cowardly to fight in defence of their homes, and the two pitying war correspondents on the city wall.

Yet Kinchow was once the home of chivalry and heroism. Here the hereditary knights of Manchu reared the walls of a city three hundred years ago, and planted their banners. But in the principal temple, before the forsaken gods of Manchuria, where countless warriors had sworn allegiance to their country, a Chinese soldier, in full uniform, committed suicide while the Japanese army was entering the city.

Who can explain this craven instinct in a once valorous race? It is not hard to understand how men can have political loyalty and patriotism educated out of them; but surely women, who prized their honor, and their husbands' honor, more than their lives, were worth dying for in battle.

After a few days' rest we moved on toward Port Arthur. The battery of thirty siege guns was still floundering on the roads in the rear, but Hasagawa's brigade of Kumomoto men had caught up with the field-marshal, and the whole army of invasion was assembled for the final stroke -- about twenty-three thousand men, and forty-eight guns.

While Oyama's army moved forward across the rough country, the main Japanese fleet, commanded by Admiral Ito, steamed slowly along the peninsular coast, constantly exchanging communications with the field-marshal.

Mr. Villiers and I had abandoned the field-marshal's headquarters and rode with General Yamaji, the one-eyed, -- a coarse, reticent, sinister man, demoniac in his energy and temperament, but modest, and the finest soldier in the East. It was a hard march, with little food, and, at times, no water. When our vanguard approached the scene of the coming battle, a part of the Chinese garrison advanced out of Port Arthur and surprised a small body of Japanese cavalry scouts in the depth between the hills which adjoins the valley leading to Port Arthur. I arrived at the front just in time to see Nishi's brigade send flanking columns around the hill to cut off the Chinese.

I could see the Chinese advancing in three columns from the southwest and northwest. It was a brilliant procession of flags and banners. The sound of gongs and squeaking trumpets came faintly up from the moving pageant.

Away to the left were the Japanese cavalrymen in a cloud of dust, cutting their way back on the main road through the line of tossing red-and-white standards. The brave little scouts had dismounted and were firing carbine volleys, while a few squads of Japanese infantrymen were creeping to the rescue and keeping up a brisk peppering. There were at least fifteen hundred Chinamen in the three columns.

Suddenly the enemy caught sight of our rapid flank movement and fled. I rode down the main road and joined the scouts as the Chinese force disappeared through the hills. The Japanese had lost eight men in the fight, and forty-two were wounded. The Japanese dead lay on the roadside, headless and mutilated. Several bodies were without hands; two had been butchered like sheep. It was this mutilation of their dead which the Japanese afterward cited as a partial justification of the slaughter of unarmed men at Port Arthur.

Accompanied by the correspondent of the London Times, I rode the next day with a reconnoitring party into the wide valley that leads to Port Arthur. We left our main escort concealed behind a grove of trees, and moved cautiously toward the distant cannon-crowned hills, the little group of Japanese officers carrying their revolvers in their hands. A lieutenant and sergeant rode ahead. Just as we came to a rising in the ground there was a sudden blaze of rifle fire and the lieutenant dashed back alone. The Chinese pickets had wounded and captured the sergeant. We afterward heard that the poor fellow was crucified alive in Port Arthur.

"Run for your lives!" shrieked the colonel commanding our party, as he dug the spurs into his horse.

We retreated to a grassy knoll and watched the Chinese sharpshooters creeping here and there in an attempt to surround us. But they were too cowardly to close in. Presently we saw a cloud of dust sweeping down through the head of the valley from which we came, and in a few minutes a battalion of Japanese infantry came to our rescue, Mr. Villiers, my gallant camp comrade, riding in front.

A line of Japanese skirmishers drove the enemy back to a slope in front of Port Arthur, where we could see them waving their gorgeous banners and dragging a field-gun into position.