Under the more than twenty-meter-long Wandou Bridge, the river flows silently in the moonlight.
A bastion stands at the bridgehead of the wooden bridge, with a three-meter-high checkpoint at each end and a shallow trench dug in front of the checkpoints.
In the gaps between horse barricades, spiked stakes, and trenches, hundreds of refugees, blocked in front of the checkpoint, sleep on the ground, shivering in the autumn chill.
Two church flags flutter on the walls, as seven or eight night guard soldiers, with their heads leaned against the parapet, engage in idle chatter.
Suddenly, the ear of a dozing soldier twitched. He stood up, leaning over the parapet, and listened to the wind.
"Hey, wake up, wake up, there's the sound of hoofbeats."
A torch rises above the parapet, and the refugees below raise their heads in confusion, trying to see what the soldiers are up to this time.
