My luck seemed to have turned. A few minutes later Chanden Sing, quite unaware that any one had undertaken to accompany me, entered the tent, and exclaimed, in a disgusted manner:

"Shoka crab, sahib! Hunya log bura crab. Hazur, hum, do admi jaldi Lhassa giao." (The Shokas are bad. The Hunyas are very bad. Your honor and I, we two alone, will go quickly by ourselves to Lhassa).

Here was another plucky and useful man anxious to come. He professed to have no fear of death. How true the poor fellow's words were we will learn later.

Chanden Sing was a man of strong sporting tastes. His happiness was complete when he could fire his rifle at something, though he was never known to hit the mark. He had been severely scolded and punished only a few days before for wasting several cartridges trying to shoot kiang (wild horse) three miles distant. Ordinary work, however, such as doing his own cooking or keeping my things tidy, was distasteful to him, and was invariably passed on to others.

Mansing, the leper, being unfortunately of the same caste as Chanden Sing, became my servant's servant. The two Hindoos constantly quarrelled and fought, but at heart they were the best of friends. The bearer, by means of promises, mingled at intervals with blows, eventually succeeded in inducing his protege to join in our new expedition and face what dangers we might find ahead.

By eight o'clock in the evening I had collected all the men who had promised to follow me. They comprised my bearer, Kachi, and six coolies.

We named this camp "Devil's Camp," for diabolical indeed was the wind that shook our tents, not to speak of the snow blown into our shelters by the raging storm. During the night the wind grew in fury. Neither wood, dung, nor lichens for fuel could be found. Our tents were pitched at 16,900 feet above sea-level. To ascend to the summit of the range would mean a further climb of two thousand feet. In such weather the difficulties of the ascent were increased tenfold, though for escaping the notice of the Tibetan watchmen, who were spying our movements, we could have no better chance than on a stormy night like this. I arranged with the doctor that he was to take back to Garbyang all the baggage I had discarded and the men who had declined to follow me. He must leave all our tents pitched until the afternoon of the next day, in order to let the Tibetans suppose that we were all sheltered under them. This would give me time to make a long forced march before they could discover that I had left my tent, and could get on my track. Hard as it would be for our little party going forward, we would take no tent except the small tente d'abri, which weighed about four pounds. We should, in any case, be unable to pitch a tent for several days, for fear of being detected by the Tibetans. As soon as they would discover that we had left they would surely start in search of us. We should have to march long distances at night, keeping mostly on the summit of the range instead of proceeding, like ordinary travellers, along the valleys. We must get what little sleep we could during the day, when we could hide in some secluded spot. The thought of making a fire had to be abandoned because, even in the remote chance of finding fuel at the great altitudes where we were compelled to camp, every one knows that the light of a fire and a column of smoke can be seen from great distances, both in the day and at night. We had talked over all these matters before we made a start, and, moreover, we were fully aware that if the Tibetans could lay their hands upon us, we were too few to fight them, and we had little chance of escaping with our lives. In fact, taking things all round, we had come to the conclusion that our lives were worth a mere song from the moment of our leaving Devil's Camp.

With the full knowledge of what we were undertaking we may have been foolish in starting at all, but lack of determination cannot fairly be charged against us.

The thoughtful doctor had brought with him from our last camp a few lichens, with which he was now attempting to light a fire to cook me a few chapatis (native flat breads of India). Alas! four hours' hard work and four entire boxes of matches failed to produce the semblance of a flame.

At midnight I sent Chanden Sing and Kachi to collect the men. Two came trembling into the tent, the others could not be roused. I went myself and took them, one by one, to their loads. All were crying like children. It was then that I discovered that in the haste and confusion I had made one load too many. Here was a dilemma! Everything was ready and propitious for our flight. A delay at this juncture was fatal. I must have another man.

The moans and groans in the coolies' tent, when I went in search of another volunteer, were pitiful. You might have thought that they were all going to die, and this was their last agony. All because of the terror of being picked out to follow me.

At last, after threats and promises, Bijesing, the Johari, was persuaded to come. But the load was too heavy for him; he would only carry half. To save trouble, I agreed to carry the other half myself in addition to my own load.



We put out our hurricane-lantern, and at 2 P.M., when the gale was raging at its height, driving the grit and snow like spikes into our faces, when the wind and cold seemed to penetrate with biting force to the marrow of our bones, a handful of silent men, half frozen and staggering, left the camp to face the blizzard. I ordered my men to keep close together, and we made immediately for the mountain-side, taking care to avoid the places where we supposed the Tibetan spies were posted.

We could not have selected a more suitable night for our escape. It was so dark that we could not see more than a few inches in front of us. The doctor, in sad silence, accompanied me for a couple of hundred yards. I urged him to return to the tent. He stopped to grasp my hand. In a broken voice the good man gave me his blessing, and bade me farewell.

"The dangers of your journey," whispered Dr. Wilson, "are so great and so numerous that God alone can guide you through. When I think of the cold, hunger, and hardships you will have to endure I can but tremble for you."

"Good-bye, doctor," said I.

"Good-bye," he repeated. "Good...." and his voice failed him. We parted.

Two or three steps, and the darkness separated us. His touching words of farewell rang sadly in my ears as I remembered the loyalty and thoughtfulness of this good friend.

The journey toward Lhassa had recommenced in grim earnest. In a short while our ears, fingers, and toes were almost frozen, and the snow, fast-driven by the gale, beat mercilessly against our faces. Our eyes ached. We might have been blind for all we could see. Feeling our way with our feet, we proceeded speechless and exhausted, rising slowly higher and higher on the mountain-side. As we reached greater elevations it grew colder, and the wind became more piercing. Every few minutes we were compelled to halt and sit close together in order to warm ourselves and get fresh breath. The air was so rarefied that we could barely proceed under our heavy loads.

We heard a whistle and faint sounds like distant voices. My men collected round me, whispered "Daku! daku!" (Brigands! brigands!), and then threw themselves flat on the snow. I loaded my rifle and went ahead, trying in vain to perceive the enemy in the darkness. I screened my ear with one hand. Hark!... hark!... Yet another shrill whistle!

My Shokas were terrified. The sound seemed to come from directly in front of us. We immediately altered our course, wending our way upward slowly and steadily until we found ourselves at sunrise near the mountain-top. It was still snowing hard. One final effort brought us to the summit of the plateau.

Here we felt comparatively safe. Thoroughly exhausted, we deposited our burdens on the snow, and laid ourselves down close to one another, piling on the top of us all the available blankets in order to keep warm.



CHAPTER VIII

HUNGRY FUGITIVES

At 1 P.M. we woke up, drenched to the skin, for the sun, which had come out after the storm had abated, had thawed the thick coating of snow over us. The elevation of this camp, according to my aneroids, was 18,000 feet. The wind, from the south-east, cut like a knife, and we suffered from it, not only on this occasion, but every day during the whole time we were in Tibet. This wind began to blow with great fierceness and regularity at one o'clock every afternoon, and it was only toward eight o'clock in the evening that it sometimes abated and gradually ceased. Frequently, however, the wind, instead of dropping at this time, increased in violence, blowing with terrible force during the whole night.

As we were making ready to start again, with limbs cramped and stiff, the sky again became suddenly covered with heavy gray clouds, and fresh snow fell. There was no possibility of making a fire, so we started hungry and half frozen, following a course of 70 deg. (b.m.). We waded up to our waists through a freezingly cold stream, and, climbing steadily higher and higher for a distance of six miles, we at last reached another and loftier plateau to the north-east of the one where we had camped in the morning. The elevation of this second plateau was 18,960 feet. I was surprised to find four lakes of considerable size close to one another on this high tableland. The sun, breaking for a moment through the clouds, shone on the snow-covered tops of the surrounding mountains, silvering the water of the lakes, and displaying before us a wild and beautiful scene.

We were too hungry and tired to care greatly for beautiful sights. All we thought of was to find, as quick as possible, a suitable place where we could rest our wearied bodies, either under the shelter of the higher hills around the plateau or in one of the depressions in the ground. I was anxious to push across the plateau and descend on the north-east side to a lower altitude, where we might likely find fuel, but my men, half starved and fagged, would go no farther. Their loads, now soaking wet, were considerably heavier than under ordinary circumstances. We were all panting on account of the thin air at that great height. No sooner had we come to a partially sheltered spot between the larger lake and the most eastern sheet of water of the group than my men collapsed and said they were unable to proceed. I was concerned about them. They refused to take cold food, believing it would cause their death. I could not see how they could recover sufficient strength for the next day's marching unless I kept them properly fed. By promising that they should not die, I finally persuaded them to eat a little satoo (flour) and ghur (sweet paste). Unluckily, no sooner had they eaten some of the mixture, upon which they drank cold water, than nearly all were seized with violent pains in their stomachs, of which they complained most of the night.

Experience had taught these mountaineers that eating cold food at great elevations was more dangerous than eating no food at all. I regretted my ill-timed, if kindly meant, advice. One is apt to judge other people by one's self. Personally I never found any different effects from hot or cold food, plentiful or not, at high elevations, on the sea-level, or at intermediate altitudes.

Soon after sunset the cold was intense. It was still snowing hard. Our wet garments and blankets were beginning to freeze. I lighted a small spirit-lamp, round which we all sat close together, making such a shelter as we could with our frozen wraps. I even attempted to cook some concentrated broth on the flame, but, owing to the high altitude, the water took a long time to lose its chill, not to speak of the time it took to boil. When it was just getting tepid the flame went out, and I could not afford more spirits of wine to light the flame again. So the cooking had to be abandoned, and as the night grew colder and colder, we huddled together under our respective blankets in order to sleep. We had made a protecting wall with our baggage. My men covered their heads with their blankets, but I never could adopt their style of sleeping, as it seemed to smother me. I always slept with my head uncovered, for not only could I breathe more freely, but I wished to be on the alert should we at any time be surprised by the Tibetans. My men moaned and groaned and their teeth chattered during the night. I woke many times with a bad pain in my ears, caused by frost-bite; my eyes, too, suffered as the eyelashes became covered with icicles. Every time I tried to open my eyelids there was an uncomfortable feeling, as if the eyelashes were being torn off. In the intense cold the lids became fast frozen directly they were closed.

At last the sun rose. The night had seemed endless. When I tried to raise the blanket in order to sit up, it seemed of an extraordinary weight and stiffness. No wonder! It was frozen hard, was as rigid as card-board, and covered over with a layer of snow one foot thick. The thermometer during the night had gone down to 24 deg.

I called my men. They were hard to wake. They were entirely buried under the snow.

"Uta! uta! uta!" (Get up! get up! get up!) I called, shaking one by one, brushing off the snow from over their blankets.

"Baroff bahut" (There is much snow), remarked one man, as he put his nose outside his blanket and rubbed his eyes, smarting from the white glare of the snow around us. "Salaam, sahib," he added, when, having overcome his first surprise, he perceived me, and he raised his hand gracefully up to his forehead.

The others behaved in a similar manner. Kachi was, as usual, the last one to wake.

"Oh, Kachi," I shouted, "get up!"

"Oh, bahiyoh!" (Oh, father!) yawned he, stretching his arms. Half asleep, half awake, he looked round as if in a trance, muttering incoherent words.

"Good-morning, sir. Oh ... much snow. Oh ... look, sir, two kiangs there! What is 'kiang' in English?"

"Wild horse."

"'Wild' you spell w-i-l-d?"

"Yes."

Here the note-book was produced from under his pillow, and the English word duly written down.

Odd creatures, these Shokas! The average European, half starved and frozen, would hardly give much thought to exact spelling under such trying circumstances.

Poor Mansing, the leper, suffered terribly. He groaned pitiably through the entire night. I had given him one of my wrappers, but his circulation had been badly affected by the intense cold. His face was gray and cadaverous, with deep lines engraved upon it from suffering. His feet were so frozen that it took him some time before he could stand upon them.

Again the Shokas would eat nothing because snow was still falling. We started toward the north-east. After a mile of flat we began a steep descent over unpleasant, loose debris and sharp rocks. The progress was rapid but painful. Looking at the country below through my telescope, I saw shrubs and lichens far down in the valley to the north-east, and also a tent and some sheep. This was unfortunate, for we had to alter our course in order not to be seen. We again climbed up to the top of the plateau and went around its summit unperceived, striking a more easterly route. Toward sunset we began our descent from the latter point. We crossed the river with no great difficulty. Having selected a nicely sheltered depression in the ground, I pitched my little tent there, by the side of a pond of melted snow. We all set out collecting lichens and shrubs in order to make a fire, and each man carried into camp several loads of fuel. In a moment we had three big fires blazing, and not only were we able to cook an excellent dinner and drown our past troubles in abundance of steaming tea, but we also managed to dry our clothes and blankets. The relief we obtained from the warmth of these fires was wonderful. In our comparative happiness we forgot the hardships and sufferings we had so far encountered. With the exception of a handful of satoo, this was the first solid meal we had eaten during the last forty-eight hours. In those two days we had travelled twenty miles, each of us carrying a weight averaging over sixty pounds.

We were now at an elevation of 16,500 feet, which seemed quite low after our colder and loftier camping-grounds. The reaction was pleasant, and, as far as I was concerned, the outlook had changed from one of deepest depression to a condition of comparative cheerfulness and contentment.

In front of us, to the north-east, was a high mountain.—Farther toward the east could be seen a narrow valley between two hill ranges, while a river passed through a picturesque gorge in the direction of the Mangshan Mountain.

It was necessary for me to proceed along the valley to the east, for in so doing we should save ourselves trouble, time, and exertion, though perhaps we might meet Tibetans, especially bands of robbers. This part of the Nari Khorsum province was said to be infested with brigands. We had, therefore, to proceed cautiously, especially as my Shokas seemed quite afraid. We had hardly gone half a mile over the rolling country, and I had stopped behind my men to take observations with my prismatic compass, when my carriers suddenly threw themselves flat on the ground and began to retreat, crawling on hands and knees.

"Daku! daku!" (Brigands! brigands!) they whispered, as I got near them.

It was too late. We had been detected, and a number of dacoits, armed with matchlocks and swords, came rapidly toward us. It has always been my experience that, in such cases, the worst thing to do is to run away, for nothing encourages a man more to attack you than to show that you are afraid. I therefore loaded my Mannlicher rifle. My bearer did likewise with the Martini-Henry. I gave orders to the Shokas to squat down by their respective loads and to remain still. My bearer and I strolled toward the fast-approaching band, now less than a hundred yards distant. I shouted to them to stop. Chanden Sing signalled to them to go back. They took no notice of our warnings, and came on all the faster toward us. Undoubtedly they thought that we were merely Shoka traders, and expected to find an easy prey. They had conceived a good plan of attack. When they prepared to rush us, on getting near enough, they separated with the obvious intention of attacking us on all sides.

"Dushu! Dushu!" (Go back! Go back!) I cried angrily at them, raising my rifle to my shoulder and taking a steady aim at the leader. Chanden Sing did the same with one of the other men. This seemed to have a good effect upon them, for they immediately made a comical salaam and took to their heels, Chanden Sing and I pursuing them for some distance in order to get them well out of the way. We watched them from a mound close by, and discovered that a short distance off these robbers had many companions, as well as some three thousand sheep, presumably the results of their last robbery. We motioned to them to get away from our course, and finally, driving their sheep before them, they went off in the direction I pointed out to them. When they were clear of us, and my Shokas, who thought their last hour had come, had partly recovered from their fright, we proceeded on our journey, entering the narrow valley between the two hill ranges which I have already mentioned.

That we were now in a much-frequented region could be plainly seen by the numerous camping-grounds along the stream. Our success of the morning had raised our spirits, and we marched merrily, keeping to the left bank of the watercourse. A steep climb brought us to a plateau at an altitude of 16,400 feet, from which we obtained a fine view of the snow range, running east to west from the Mangshan Mountain to the Lippu Pass, and beyond, to the north-east, the four lofty peaks of Nimo Nangil, 25,360 feet, 22,200 feet, 22,850 feet, 22,670 feet high. This plateau sloped gently, and was broken by many deep crevasses, conveying the waterflow down into the Gakkon River.

On the lower portion of this plateau, and then along the course of the river, a track ran from Gyanema to Taklakot via Kardam and Dogmar, and another seldom-frequented track to Mangshan, south-south-west of this place. The edge of the plateau was 15,800 feet above sea-level, and the river 550 feet lower.

This was for us a dangerous spot, as by this time the Tibetans must be aware that I had escaped and that I was well into their country. I knew that soldiers and spies must be guarding all the tracks and searching for us. This thoroughfare, being more frequented than the others, was all the more insecure. We had to display great caution in order to avoid detection. In Tibet the atmosphere is so clear that moving objects can plainly be seen very far away. I looked everywhere through my telescope, but could see no one, so we went on. My men thought it safer to descend into one of the numerous creeks, where we should be less exposed, but we had hardly reached the border of one of these when we heard noises rising from the valley below.

Crawling on our stomachs, my bearer and I peeped over the edge of the plateau. Some five hundred feet below was a Tibetan encampment, with a number of yaks and ponies grazing. Unnoticed, I watched them for some time. There were several soldiers, most probably posted there on the lookout for me. With my spy-glass I recognized some of the Gyanema men. We deemed it wise to select a spot where we could hide until night came. After dark we descended to the river (15,250 feet), scrambled across it, and made our way up a narrow gorge between high cliffs until we came to a well-hidden spot, where we halted. Followed by my men, I climbed up from rock to rock on the cliff to our left, and found a small natural platform, sheltered by a huge bowlder projecting over it. This seemed a safe enough spot for camping. We dared not put up a tent, and we took the precaution of burying all our baggage in case of a surprise during the night. Unhampered, we should at any moment be able to hide ourselves away from our pursuers or run before them. We could always come back afterward for our things if we had the chance.

Now that everything seemed to be running smoothly, I made a painful discovery. It was necessary for me to move rapidly. Imagine my surprise when I found that we were out of provisions. Before leaving the larger body of my expedition, I had given orders to my men to take food for ten days. The doctor, who had been deputed to see to this, had assured me that the loads contained quite enough to last us fully and above that length of time. Now, for some unknown reason, we had only sufficient food for one meagre meal. We only had a few grains of salt left.

"What have you done with it?" I inquired, angrily, as it immediately flashed across my mind that my carriers had been playing foul. I had ordered each man to take one pound of salt.

"Yes, sahib; but we forgot to take it," said the men, in a chorus.



After the hardships and fatigue we had undergone, and the anxiety and difficulty of carrying on my work of surveying, photography, sketching, and writing, under conditions of unusual discomfort and risk, it was indeed a hard blow to me to see my plans spoiled. We were still three or four days' journey from Mansarowar, where I expected to obtain fresh supplies. Again I had the choice of giving up and returning into India or of being captured by the Tibetan soldiers, whom I had so far successfully avoided. Though not usually affected by physical pain, I sometimes suffer under mental stress. I felt ill and depressed. To add bodily discomfort to my moral sufferings, I slipped, while jumping in the semi-darkness from stone to stone across the Gakkon River, and fell flat into about four feet of ice-cold water. The wind was high at the time. The thermometer, after dark, went down to 26 deg. While I was sitting in my wet clothes and talking our situation over, I became so cold and exhausted that I felt I was about to collapse altogether. High fever set in, and I became almost delirious. With my teeth chattering and my temperature at its highest, all my troubles seemed greater than they were. Failure seemed inevitable, my position hopeless. A plan suddenly flashed across my mind. Four of my men should go disguised, two as traders and two as beggars, into the Takla fort (locally called Takla khar or Taklakot), and buy food from my enemies. We, in camp, would remain hidden until they returned. I spoke to my followers, and, after some natural reluctance, four Shokas undertook to perform the daring duty. Discovery would mean to them the loss of their heads, in all probability preceded by cruel tortures. Although these men eventually betrayed me, I cannot help giving them credit for the pluck and fidelity they showed on that particular occasion.

During the night my men were particularly good to me. We did not sleep for fear of being surprised by the Tibetan soldiers. We passed hour after hour listening to Shoka stories of brigands and barbarous Tibetan tortures. Little I knew then what was in store for me. Early in the morning, when it grew light, we gathered a quantity of nettles, which were plentiful near this camp, and having boiled them thoroughly, we made of them a hearty if not quite an appetizing meal. They did not seem unpalatable at the time, and had we possessed salt to add taste and digestibility to our prickly diet, we might have felt quite happy. We supplied the deficiency by mixing with them a double quantity of pepper. At any rate, it was a relief to know that, while nettles lasted near our camp, we should at least not die of starvation.



CHAPTER IX

AN ATTEMPT AT MUTINY

The entire food-supply for my men was now reduced to four pounds of flour, two pounds of rice, and two pounds of satoo. This we gave to the four men who were to attempt to enter Taklakot. Their journey would be long and fatiguing. For us there were plenty of nettles to fall back upon. For myself I had a small quantity of tinned provisions, but I intended to keep these for worse days which, I feared, were in store for me.

I carefully instructed the four Shokas how to enter the Tibetan fort one by one in their disguises, and, in order to avoid suspicion, purchase only in small quantities at a time the provisions we required. When a sufficient amount was obtained to make one load, a man should immediately start back for our camp. The others were to follow separately for a few marches. At a given spot they would all four meet again and return together to us. It was exciting work to prepare the different disguises and arrange for everything. At last, after repeated good-byes and words of encouragement, the four messengers left on their perilous errand. All seemed quiet around us, so quiet that I unburied my sextant and artificial horizon and was taking astronomical observations when a herd of over a hundred yaks appeared on the pass north of our camp, and slowly advanced toward us. Were we discovered? Were the Tarjum's men coming, preceded by their animals? No time was to be lost. Instruments and blankets were quickly cleared away and hidden. Crawling up toward the animals, that had stopped on seeing us, we threw stones at them in order to drive them down the next creek. We were just in time to do this and return to our hiding-place when we saw, on the summit of the pass and on the other side, a number of Tibetans following the yaks we had driven away. The Tibetans passed only a couple of hundred yards below us, evidently quite unaware of our presence. They were apparently looking for our tracks, for they often stooped to examine the ground.

Later in the afternoon I went to reconnoitre down the Gyanema road, in the hope of watching, unseen, the Tibetans who passed on their way to and from Taklakot. I saw no soldiers. A strong band of brigands, driving before them thousands of sheep and yaks, was an interesting sight. The bandits rode ponies, and obeyed their leader smartly when, in a hoarse voice, and never ceasing to turn his prayer-wheel, he muttered orders. They went briskly along, women and men riding their ponies astride. The men had matchlocks and swords. Each pony carried, besides its rider, bags of food slung behind the saddle. I watched the long procession from behind rocks, and felt somewhat relieved when the last horsemen, who passed only some twenty yards from me, rode away with the rest of the caravan. I retraced my steps. Judging that this camp was not quite so safe as I had at first imagined, I proceeded, with the aid of my men, to make a rough intrenchment and to erect a wall round the platform, sheltered by the projecting rock under which we lived. These bulwarks hid us from the sight of passing Tibetans, and were serviceable as fortifications in case of a night attack. All our things were buried a short distance above our camp.

Another long, dreary day had passed. We had used our last grain of salt. Yet another day on nettles alone, and a third day and a fourth on the same diet! How sick we got of nettles! The days seemed endless as, lying on a peak above our camp, I remained hour after hour scanning with my telescope the long plateau above the Gakkon River in search of our expected messengers. Every time I saw men in the distance my heart leaped, but on focussing them with my glass they turned out to be Jogpas (bandits), or Dogpas (nomad tribes of smugglers), or travelling Humlis or Jumlis, on their way to Gyanema and Gartok. As time went on and the messengers did not put in an appearance, we began to entertain doubts as to their safety. Would they betray us and never return? Or had they been caught by the Jong Pen (the Master of the fort), and been imprisoned and tortured?

My Indian servant declined to eat any more nettles. He said it was better not to eat at all than to eat the same thing constantly. He declared he could fast for ten days, and would make up for the lack of food by sleeping.

My fortified abode was comfortable enough during the morning when the sun shone on it. Often when the rock had absorbed a good deal of heat, it got so warm that we had to abandon it in the middle of the day, when the thermometer registered as much as 120 deg., 122 deg., and even 124 deg. From 1 P.M. till ten o'clock at night a bitter wind blew from the south-east and seemed to get right into our bones. So cold was this wind that the temperature suddenly dropped down to 60 deg., and even lower, the moment the sun disappeared behind the mountains, and continued to fall as low as 40 deg., 34 deg., and 32 deg. during the night. One night we had a terrific gale and a snow-storm. Such was the force of the wind that our wall was blown down upon us as we slept under its shelter. The hours we had hoped to rest had to be spent in repairing the damage done.

On the following morning we were gathering nettles for our meal when we heard the distant tinkling of fast-approaching horse-bells. We quickly put out the fires, hid our things, and hastened behind our bulwarks. I seized my rifle. Chanden Sing loaded the Martini. A Shoka, who was too far off to reach our fortified abode in time, screened himself behind some rocks. In the nick of time! Half a dozen soldiers, with matchlocks to which were attached red flags, were cantering gayly up the hillside only a few yards in front of us. They were undoubtedly searching for me. They looked in every direction, but fortunately never turned their eyes toward the castle walls that concealed us. Perhaps they were expecting to see a large European tent in one of the valleys, and never dreamed that we should be where we were. We covered them well with our rifles, but we had no occasion to fire. They rode on. The sound of their horse-bells grew fainter and fainter as they disappeared on the other side of the pass. These horsemen were probably soldiers despatched by the Tarjum to guard this track. They were now on their way back to their master, satisfied that the Englishman was not to be found in that part of the country.

We named that spot "Terror Camp," for many and horrible were the experiences that befell us there. Another weary day dragged slowly to its close, and no sign of the messengers' return. Two men volunteered to go into Kardam, a settlement some miles off. There they would try to obtain food from the Tibetans. One of them had a friend at that place. He would try to buy from him sufficient provisions to enable us to go on a few days longer.

Disguised as pilgrims, a disguise not difficult to assume, for their clothes were falling to pieces owing to the rough marching we had done of late, the men started and were away the whole day. When they returned late at night they had an amusing tale to tell. Meeting a tribe of Dogpas, they had boldly entered their camp, asking to purchase food. Unfortunately the Dogpas had not sufficient for themselves, and could not spare any. Incidentally my men were informed that Lando Plenki (the name the Tibetans had given me) had taken a large army of men into Tibet. Great excitement prevailed at Taklakot as well as at other places, owing to the fact that the Englishman had the strange power of making himself invisible when the Tibetan soldiers were near him. He had been heard of in many places in Tibet. Soldiers had been sent in all directions to capture him. His tracks had several times been discovered and followed. Yet he could never be found. Messengers had been hastily sent out from Taklakot to Lhassa (sixteen days' journey), and to Gartok, a great market in West Tibet, asking for soldiers to assist in the capture of this strange invader, who was also said to have the power of walking on water when crossing rivers and of flying over mountains when he chose.

When I recalled our struggles and sufferings in climbing over the mountains and in crossing the streams on our journey, this account of myself given by the Tibetans, and now repeated to me, struck me as almost cruelly ironical. I was pleased that the Tibetans credited me with such supernatural powers, for it would keep them from getting too close to us.

Three more long days were spent in painful anxiety regarding the fate of our messengers. We feared that they had been captured and beheaded. We had retired in despair to our fortress. It was 10 P.M. We were worn out and ready to turn in. Our fire at the bottom of the creek was slowly dying out. Nature around us was as still and silent as death. I suddenly heard sounds of approaching steps. We listened, peeping through the narrow openings in our wall. Were these Tibetans trying to surprise us in our sleep or were they my men returning at last?

We closely watched the gorge from which the sounds came—yes, faint sounds of voices and of footsteps. At last four staggering figures crawled cautiously into camp. We could not even then discern in the dim light whether they were our messengers or not.

"Kuan hai?" (Who is there?) I shouted.

"Dola!" replied a voice. We gave them a joyful and hearty greeting, but our happiness was not to last long. The men did not respond. They seemed quite exhausted and terrified. I asked them to explain the cause of their distress. Sobbing and embracing my feet, they at first declined to tell me. Grave, indeed, was the news they brought.

"Your days are numbered, sir!" at last cried Dola. "It is impossible for you to get out of this country alive!... They will kill you! The Jong Pen of Taklakot says he must have your head at any cost."

"Do not look so far ahead, Dola," I replied, trying to console him. "Tell me, first, how you reached Taklakot?"

"Oh, sahib, we followed your plan. We suffered much on the road. The marches were long and severe, and we had little food. We walked day and night for two days, keeping away from the track, and hiding whenever we saw any one. When we got near the Tibetan fort we saw, at the foot of the hill, a few tents of Shokas from Nepal. None of the Shokas from British Territory had been allowed to enter Tibet. A guard kept a sharp lookout day and night in order to arrest anybody entering the country from that side. Two fakirs, who were on a pilgrimage to the sacred Mansarowar Lake, unaware of the danger, had crossed over the Lippu Pass, and had proceeded down to Taklakot. They were immediately seized and accused of being you, sir, in disguise. As the Tibetans were not quite certain as to which of the two was the disguised Englishman, they severely punished both, beating them almost to death. What became of them we were unable to learn. The Tibetans afterward found out that you had entered Tibet by another pass, and soldiers have been sent in every direction to look for you.

"No sooner did we appear at Taklakot," sobbed Dola, "than we were pounced upon, knocked about, and arrested. They cross-examined us closely. We professed to be Johari traders who had run short of food, and had made for Taklakot to buy provisions. They beat us and treated us badly, until your friend Zeniram, the head village man of Chongur (in Nepal), came to our rescue and gave thirty rupees surety for us. We were then allowed to remain in his tent, guarded by Tibetan soldiers. We secretly purchased from him and packed the provisions. At night Zeniram succeeded in decoying the soldiers who were guarding us into his tent, and gave them choekti to drink until they became intoxicated. One by one we four succeeded in escaping with our loads. For three nights we marched steadily back, hiding during the day. Now we have returned to you, sir."

Dola paused for a minute or two.

"Sir," he continued, "we were told in Taklakot that over a thousand soldiers are searching for you everywhere. More are expected from Lhassa and Sigatz,[5] whither the Jong Pen has hastily sent messengers. They fear you, sir, but they have orders from Lhassa to capture you at any cost. They say that you can make yourself invisible when you wish. Exorcisms are made and prayers offered daily, so that in future you may be seen and arrested. Once caught, they will have no pity on you. You will be beheaded. The Jong Pen is angry with you, owing to the defiant messages you sent him from Garbyang. He has given orders to the soldiers to bring you back dead or alive. Whoever brings your head will receive a reward of five hundred rupees."

"I had no idea my head was so valuable!" I could not help exclaiming. "I shall take great care of it in the future."

In Tibet five hundred rupees represent a large fortune. The man possessing such a sum is a rich man.

My men looked upon the whole affair as very serious.

I gave a handsome reward to the four men who had brought the provisions, but that did not prevent all my Shokas declaring that the danger was so great that they must leave me there and then. Appeals are useless on such occasions. I simply said that I should shoot any man attempting to leave camp. Having now provisions for ten days, I informed my men that we must at sunrise push on.

Sulky and grumbling, the Shokas left the fortified corner and went below to the creek. They said they preferred sleeping down there. I suspected them. I sat up watching them and listening instead of sleeping. My Indian servant rolled himself up in his blanket, and, as usual, was soon asleep. The Shokas lighted a fire, sat around it, and with their heads close together held an excited council in a half-whisper. In the heated discussion some spoke louder than they imagined. The night being particularly still, and the place well adapted for carrying sound, I overheard words which put me on the alert. I soon convinced myself that they were arranging to sell my head ... yes ... and to divide the money!

The men got closer together, and spoke so faintly that I could hear no more. Then they each in turn placed one hand above the other along a stick, until the end of it was reached; each man then passed it to his neighbor, who went through the same performance; a queer kind of drawing lots, common among the Shokas. Eventually the man selected by fate drew from a load a large Gourkha knife, and removed its scabbard. I well remember the moment when the men, with their faces lighted by the small flame of the flickering fire, all looked up toward my aerie. Seen from the fissure in the wall behind which I knelt, their countenances seemed distorted and ghastly. They listened to hear if we were asleep. Then all but one rolled themselves in their blankets, completely covering their heads and bodies. The one figure I could now see sat up by the fire for some time, as if thinking hard. Every now and then he turned his head up toward my fortress and listened. At last he got up and, with his feet, smothered the fire. It was a lovely night, and as soon as the reddish flame was put out the stars shone like diamonds in the deep-blue sky.

I rested the barrel of my rifle on the wall, my eyes being fixed on the black figure down below. Stooping low, the traitor crawled step by step the few yards up to my abode, pausing to listen each time a rolling stone caused a noise. He was now only two or three yards away. He seemed to hesitate. Drawing back, and ready to spring up, I kept my eyes fixed on the top of the wall. I waited some time, but the man was in no hurry. I grew impatient.

I slowly got up, rifle in hand, and as I raised my head above the wall I found myself face to face with the man on the other side. I lost no time in placing the muzzle of my Mannlicher rifle close to his face. The surprised Shoka, dropping his knife, went down on his knees and begged my pardon. He received a good pounding with the butt of my rifle. I felt I had better ascertain that no further disturbance took place during the night. Two men attempted to crawl out of camp and desert, but I discovered them and stopped them in time. At last the sun rose, and the night ended with all its troubles and anxieties.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 5: Usually called "Shigatze" on English maps.]



CHAPTER X

AMONG ENEMIES AND ROBBERS

On my last scouting journey up the hill above Terror Camp I had seen, by the aid of my telescope, the encampment of a guard of Tibetans about three miles north of us.

In the morning we dug up the main part of the baggage we had buried, and made ready to start. One of my men, named Nattoo, came forward and professed to be able to guide me directly to the Mansarowar Lake. He seemed anxious to undertake this task, saying that there would be no chance of being seen by Tibetans by the route he knew, and therefore we might march during the daytime.

Led by this man, we started up the creek. I was astonished at the willingness with which the Shokas agreed to proceed. In a short time I felt convinced that Nattoo was deliberately taking us to the spot I most wished to avoid. On my remonstrating and stopping farther progress in that direction, the Shokas mutinied, and, laying down their loads, tried to escape. Chanden Sing quickly barred their way ahead in the narrow creek. I prevented their escape from the opposite side. They had to surrender. They were all severely punished there and then. On being closely cross-examined, they confessed that they had made a plot to hand me over to the Tibetan guard, in order to escape themselves the horrors of torture by the Tibetans. This last act of treachery, coming after what had happened during the night, and from the very men to whom I had been so kind, was too much for me. I used a stick, which Chanden Sing handed me, freely on their backs and legs—Nattoo receiving the largest share of blows, because he was undoubtedly the leader of the conspiracy.

On climbing to a high point of vantage I made another discovery. Besides the guard we had to the north of us, both east and west our way was barred by Tibetan soldiers. It was not possible to get on during the day without being seen. I absolutely refused to go back south. I held a council with my men, now apparently resigned to their fate. They agreed to accompany me as far as the Maium Pass (on the road to Lhassa), which we reckoned we could reach in fifteen to eighteen marches. They further agreed to endeavor to obtain yaks and food for me, and I was then to dismiss them.

From the summit of the hill I had climbed I had taken careful bearings. At night, aided by my luminous compass, I led my men high up along the mountain range at an average elevation of 1500 feet above the Gyanema-Taklakot track.

The night was dark and stormy. We encountered much difficulty on our journey forward, owing to the slippery ground. Where it was not slippery we trod over troublesome loose stones. We could not see far ahead. Though we well knew from the angle of the slope that we were travelling along a precipice, we could not distinguish anything under us except a very bright streak far, far down below—undoubtedly the river.

I could not explain the luminosity of the water. It did not seem to come from reflection of the light of stars or the moon, because the sky was cloudy at the time. The river had a curious greenish tint, closely resembling the light produced by an electric discharge. In the more dangerous spots we had to proceed for long distances on all-fours. Even then we felt hardly safe, for we could hear the sound of the stones rolling down the steep slope, and by the length of time they took to reach the bottom we knew that we were proceeding over a precipice of extraordinary height. So difficult and painful was the walking that it took us about four hours to go some three miles. We felt so exhausted that from time to time we had to lie down and rest, shivering with cold. Our hands were bleeding from cuts caused by the sharp stones. I mustered my men. Poor Mansing, the leper, was missing. When we last spoke to him he was moaning under his load, and he constantly stumbled and fell. Two men were sent in search, but after an hour's absence they failed to discover him. Faithful Chanden Sing and the Shoka Dola were then despatched to his rescue. After another hour of anxiety the two returned, bringing the unfortunate coolie with them. The poor fellow's hands and feet were badly cut. The pain in the latter was so great that he could no more stand erect. He had fallen in a faint from exhaustion, and it was by a mere chance that in the darkness Chanden Sing stumbled against his senseless body. Apart from his life, his loss would have been a serious matter to me, as he carried my bedding and photographic cameras.

Sleet and rain commenced to fall. The cold was intense. We continued to climb steadily, Chanden Sing and I helping the poor leper along. The march soon became less difficult, as we were following a depression formed by the action of melting snows. We were sheltered from the piercing wind, which had been driving the sleet hard into our faces. We slowly covered some three more miles. During that time the storm passed away, leaving the atmosphere beautifully clear. When we reached the pass (over 17,000 feet high) a curious optical phenomenon astonished us all. The larger stars and planets, of a dazzling brilliancy, such as I had never in my life seen before, seemed to swing to and fro in the sky with rapid and sudden jerks, describing short arcs of a circle, and returning each time to their normal position. The effect was so weird that I at first believed something had gone wrong with my vision, but my companions saw the same phenomenon. More curious still was the illusion of the stars nearer the horizon disappearing and reappearing behind the mountain range. The oscillations of the heavenly bodies nearer the horizon were less rapid, but the angle of the arc described measured almost double that traced by the stars directly above our heads. The oscillations of the latter were, especially at certain moments, so rapid that the star itself, instead of having its normal appearance, formed a continuous streak of light on the deep-blue background of the sky. This strange optical illusion, which began soon after the storm had cleared away, lasted some time. Gradually the oscillations became less violent, and stars and planets eventually resumed their normal steadiness, shining with great brilliancy and beauty.

We crossed the pass, and halted directly on the northern side of it. My followers suffered intense pain. Their feet were in a terrible condition. The minimum temperature was 12 deg. Fahrenheit. We did not pitch our tent, and when we went to sleep there was only a blanket between us and heaven. When we woke in the morning we found the thermometer had risen to 30 deg. We were enveloped in thick mist, which chilled us to the marrow of our bones. I had icicles hanging from my mustache, eyelashes, and hair. My cheeks and nose were covered with a thin layer of ice, caused by the breath settling and congealing on my face.

During our night marches up and down mountain ranges of great height we naturally had many adventures and escapes. In constant storms of grit and snow we crossed range after range, travelling at night and hiding during the day, always camping at great elevations. We underwent considerable privations. I steered my men toward the Rakastal, or Devil's Lake. One day, having risen to 17,550 feet, we obtained a magnificent view of the two great sheets of water, the Lafan-cho and Mafan-cho, more commonly known to non-Tibetans under the names of Rakastal and Mansarowar lakes.

To the north of the lakes stood the magnificent Tize, the sacred Kelas Mountain, overtopping by some 2000 feet all the other snowy peaks of the Gangri chain. This chain extended roughly from north-west to south-east. From this spot we could see more distinctly than from Lama Chokten the band round the base of the mountain, which, according to legend, was formed by the rope of the Rakas (devil) trying to tear down this throne of Siva.

Tize, the great sacred peak, was of fascinating interest, owing to its peculiar shape. It resembled the giant roof of a temple. Perhaps it lacked the gracefulness of sweeping curves. Tize was angular—uncomfortably angular. Its height, the vivid color of its base, and the masses of snow that covered its slopes certainly gave it a peculiar attraction. Otherwise it struck me as being intensely unpicturesque—at least from the point from which I saw it and from which the entire face of it was visible. When clouds toned down and modified its shape, Tize appeared at its best from a painter's point of view. Under these conditions, I have thought it beautiful, especially at sunrise, with one side tinted red and yellow, and its exposed rocky mass standing majestic against a background of shiny gold. With my telescope I could plainly distinguish, especially on the east side, the defile along which the worshippers make the circuit at the base of the mountain. I was told that some pilgrims actually march round it on the snowy ledge directly over the base, just above the darker band of rock described before. On the south-west side could be seen, on the top of a lower peak, a gigantic obo (a pyramid of stone).

The journey round Tize usually takes three days. Some accomplish it in two days, and under favorable circumstances it has even been done in one day. It is usual for the pilgrims to say certain prayers and make sacrifices as they proceed. The more fanatical perform the journey serpentwise, lying flat on the ground at each step. Others do it on their hands and knees, and others walking backward.

Tize, or Kelas, has an elevation of 21,830 feet, and Nandiphu, west of it, 19,440 feet. North-west of the sacred mountain are visible other summits 20,460 feet, 19,970 feet, and 20,280 feet high.

While I was sketching this panorama a snow leopard bounded gracefully before us. Animal life seemed to abound. I had a shot or two at a thar (mountain goat), and we saw any number of kiang (wild horse). We found rhubarb, which seemed to be thriving at so high an elevation as 17,000 feet, and quantities of yellow flowers in the same locality and at the same elevation. At 19,000 feet I netted two couples of small white-and-black butterflies. They seemed to have great difficulty in flying.

On nearing the lakes the atmosphere seemed saturated with moisture. No sooner had the sun gone down than there was a heavy dew, which soaked our blankets and clothes. We were at 16,550 feet in a narrow, marshy creek in which we had descended precipitously from the last mountain range. From the summit of the range we had seen many columns of smoke rising from the neighborhood of the Devil's Lake. We judged that we must again proceed with great caution.

We cooked our food. In the middle of the night, for greater safety, we shifted our camp in a north-easterly direction on the summit of the plateau. We continued our journey in the morning high above the magnificent blue sheet of the Devil's Lake with its pretty islands.

"Sir, do you see that island?" exclaimed Nattoo, pointing at a barren rock in the lake. "On it," he continued, "lives a hermit Lama, a saintly man. He has been there alone for many years, and he is held in great veneration by the Tibetans. He exists almost entirely on fish and occasional swan's eggs. Only in winter, when the lake is frozen, is communication established with the shore, and supplies of tsamba are brought to him. There are no boats on the Devil's Lake, nor any way of constructing rafts, owing to the absence of wood. The hermit sleeps in a cave, but generally comes out in the open to pray to Buddha."

During the following night, when everything was still, a breeze blowing from the north conveyed to us, faint and indistinct, the broken howls of the hermit.

"What is that?" I asked of the Shokas.

"It is the hermit speaking to God. Every night he climbs to the summit of the rock, and from there addresses his prayers to Buddha the Great."

"How is he clothed?" I inquired.

"In skins."

Late in the afternoon we had an amusing incident. We came to a creek in which were a number of men and women, hundreds of yaks and sheep, and some thirty ponies.

The Shokas became alarmed, and immediately pronounced the folks to be brigands. I maintained that they were not. Kachi had a theory that the only way to tell brigands from honest beings was to hear them talk. The brigands, he declared, usually shouted at the top of their voices when conversing, and used language far from select, while well-to-do Tibetans spoke gently and with refinement. I thought the only thing to do was to go and address the people, when by the tone of voice we should find out who and what they were. This, however, did not suit my Shokas. We were placed in a rather curious position. In order to proceed on our journey we must either pass through the Tibetan encampment or we must march southward round a mountain, which would involve considerable trouble, fatigue, and waste of time. We waited till night came, watching, unseen, the Tibetans below us. As is customary with them, at sundown they retired to their tents. Leaving my men behind, I crawled into their camp during the night and peeped into one of the tents. The men were squatting on the ground, round a fire in the centre, upon which steamed two vessels with stewing tea. One old man had strongly marked Mongolian features, accentuated by the heavy shadows which were cast by the light of the fire on his angular cheek-bones and prominent and wrinkled brow. He was busily revolving his prayer-wheel from left to right, repeating, in a mechanical way, the usual Omne mani padme hun, words which come from the Sanscrit, and refer to the reincarnation of Buddha from a lotus flower, meaning literally, "O God, the gem emerging from a lotus flower." Two or three other men whose faces I could not well see, as they were stooping low, were counting money and examining several articles of Indian manufacture which undoubtedly had been seized from Shokas.

Having discovered the best way to pass without being seen, I went back to my men, and led them, in the middle of the night, through the Tibetan camp. We proceeded for a mile or so beyond the encampment. Having selected a well-sheltered spot where we thought we could rest without fear of discovery, we laid down our loads and tried to get a few hours' sleep. At sunrise we were startled on finding our camp surrounded by a band of robbers. Our friends of the previous night had followed our tracks, and, mistaking us for Shoka traders, had now come for a little pleasant robbery. On drawing near they were given a somewhat warm reception. Their instant retreat was more speedy than dignified.

We wended our way along a narrow valley toward the shore of the Devil's Lake, halting to cook our food about half a mile from the water's edge. At this point I took observations for longitude, also the correct elevation with boiling-point thermometers. Water boiled at 185 deg. with the temperature of the atmosphere at 64 deg. Fahrenheit.

I had just repacked my instruments, and was lying flat in the sun, some distance away from my men, when I thought I saw something move. Jumping up, I caught sight of a stalwart Tibetan stealing along the ground only a few yards away from me, with the object, no doubt, of seizing my rifle. He was not quick enough. All he got was a good pounding with the butt of my Mannlicher. I recognized him; he was one of the brigands we had seen in the morning. They had followed and spied us all along. Having got over his first surprise and begged for mercy, the bandit, with an amusing air of assumed innocence, requested us to go and spend the night in his tent with him and his friends. They would treat us right royally, he said. Being well acquainted with the hospitality of robbers, we declined the invitation. The brigand went away somewhat shaken and disappointed. We continued our journey along the edge of the Devil's Lake. Hundreds of hares sprang all around us. So numerous were they that I killed several with my rifle, using bullet cartridges. There were signs all along that at some previous epoch the level of the lake must have been much higher than it is at present.

Marching during the day, we encountered many Tibetans, some of whom were Dogpas, others Jogpas, both nomad bands of robbers. When they saw us approaching they generally fled, driving their sheep and yaks in front of them. We came upon two Tibetan women, very dirty. Their faces were smeared with black ointment, as a protection for the skin and to prevent its cracking in the high wind. They were dressed in long sheepskin garments, worn out and filthy. The shaggy hair was so unwashed that it emitted a sickening odor. I ordered them not to come too near us.

Later four Tibetans, who attempted to snatch Chanden Sing's rifle out of his hand, received from him a battering they were not likely to forget. After this we were left alone for the remainder of the day. In the evening Chanden Sing fired at a black wolf which came close to camp. I discovered, about one hundred feet above the lake-level, imbedded in the mountain-side, a stratum of gigantic fossils, which, owing to their size and weight, I was unable to dig out and carry away.

Feeling almost certain that we were being spied upon all the time by the numerous Jogpas we had met, and knowing their favorite habit of attacking strangers at night while asleep, we generally resorted to a simple ruse. Before sunset we pretended to encamp, and having lighted a fire to let them think that we had halted for the night, after dark escaped, leaving the fire burning. Walking and stumbling for several miles, we eventually found a spot high on the hillside, where we considered ourselves safe. Snow fell heavily during the night, and as usual we woke up with icicles hanging from our mustaches, eyelashes, and hair. Otherwise we really felt happy and well.

It was my good-fortune to make quite sure, from many points, that the ridge between the Rakas and Mansarowar lakes was continuous, and no visible communication between the two lakes existed. With the exception of a small depression about half-way across, the ridge has an average height of 1000 feet all along—a fact which ought in itself to dispose of the theory held by some that the two lakes are connected by a wide channel intersecting this ridge. I ascertained from the natives that there was no visible communication between the lakes, though the depression in the ridge makes it probable that at a very remote period some connection existed. The lowest point in this depression in the centre of the ridge is over three hundred feet above the level of the lakes.



CHAPTER XI

IN STRANGE COMPANY

Just before leaving the shores of the Rakastal I had a great piece of luck. We had been detected by another band of brigands, who were trying to overtake us. I had watched them with my telescope as they rode toward us. They were driving some twenty yaks in front of them at a fast pace. The brigands rode ponies. We were about a mile and a half ahead of them, and close to the edge of the Devil's Lake. We saw them coming down the hillside at a breakneck speed straight in our direction. It was evident that they were after us. My men became terror-stricken when I gave order to halt.

The band of highwaymen approached, leaving the yaks in charge of two women. When they galloped in a line toward us, my men, with the exception of Chanden Sing and Mansing, were paralyzed with fright.

The brigands were now one hundred yards off. With loaded rifle in one hand and my camera in the other, I advanced to meet them, knowing that, with their old-fashioned matchlocks, it took them a considerable time to light the fusee and fire a shot. Moreover, it was almost an impossibility for them to fire on horseback, their weapons being heavy and cumbersome.



I focussed them in my twin-lens photographic apparatus, and waited till I had them well in the field. I snapped the picture when they were only thirty yards away, vaulting over their ponies in the act of dismounting. The camera, having done its work, was quickly deposited on the ground, and the rifle shouldered. I shouted to them to put down their weapons. To give force to my request I aimed at them with my Mannlicher.

A meeker lot of brigands I do not believe could be found anywhere. People of that kind were only brave when it was easy for them to be courageous. The matchlocks were quickly unslung from their shoulders and flung to the ground. Their jewelled swords were laid by the side of the firearms. The bandits went down on their knees, and taking off their caps with both hands, put out their tongues in sign of salute and submission. I could not help taking another photograph of them in that comical attitude.

Chanden Sing, who had been left to look after the baggage, had placed Mansing in charge, and was now by my side with the Martini-Henry rifle, when one of the women, riding astride, arrived on the scene. She was evidently furious at the cowardice of her men. I liked her for that. She jumped off her steed, ejaculated words at the top of her voice, shaking her fists at the men still kneeling before me, and at last, foaming with rage, spat on them. While thus haranguing the band of highwaymen, she had an annoying way of pointing at my baggage; but her speech seemed to have little effect on the submissive crowd.

I went up to her, patted her on the back, and offered her a rupee if she would hold her tongue. She grabbed the coin, and rubbed it on her skin coat to make the silver shine. She instantly became calm, and rubbing the coin until it was quite bright, she raised her fiery eyes, staring into mine, and put out her tongue to express her thanks.

Kachi and Dola, who knew Tibetan well, were now summoned to address the bandits for me; but these two Shokas were in such terror that they could hardly walk, much less speak. After a while, however, seeing how well I had these terrible people under control, they were able to translate.

"I want them to sell me some yaks and some ponies," I said. "I will pay handsomely for them."

"They say they cannot. The Tarjum will cut their heads off if he comes to know it. They will only sell one or two yaks."

"Very good. How much do they want?"

"Two hundred silver rupees. But," added Dola, "sir, do not give them more than forty. That is a great deal more than they are worth. A good yak costs from ten to sixteen rupees."

After some three or four hours' bargaining, during which time the bandits descended gradually from two hundred rupees to forty, and I rose from twenty to that figure, we at last agreed, amid the greatest excitement on both sides, that their two best yaks should be my property. Becoming quite friendly, they also sold me pack-saddles and sundry curiosities. They gave me tea and tsamba. The fiery woman had still a peculiar way of keeping her eyes fixed on my baggage. Her longing for my property seemed to increase when she saw me pay for the yaks and suspected that I must have a good deal of money. If she kept one eye on my goods, I kept both there. I took good care that my rifle was never out of my hand, and that no one ever came too near me from behind.

We counted the money down, some fifty rupees, including all purchases. Each coin was passed round and sounded by each of our sellers, and when the entire sum was handed over the coins were passed back and recounted, so that there should be no mistake. Time in Tibet is not money, and my readers must not be surprised when I tell them that counting, recounting, and sounding the small amount took two more hours. The two yaks were eventually handed over to us—one, a huge, long-haired black animal, restless and powerful; the other equally black, strong, and hairy, but somewhat gentler.

To catch them, separate them from the herd, pass ropes through their respective nostrils, and tie pack-saddles on their backs, were all operations we as novices had to master. It was hard work indeed, but we struggled until we succeeded.

When we parted, the brigands and I were good friends. The bandits behaved admirably. I came to the conclusion that, in Tibet, I would at any time rather deal with a bandit than with an official.

In a way I was sorry when my interview with the Jogpas came to an end, for, although they were undoubtedly brigands, they were certainly interesting. Their original and curious dress, their manner, their conversation, their unusual but eminently sensible mode of eating, and their jovial freedom of demeanor were really quite refreshing. Their dress was quite representative of Tibet. The men wore a great variety of coats and hats, probably due to the facility with which they obtained them. No two individuals were dressed alike, though certain leading features of dress were to be observed in each case. One man wore a gaudy coat trimmed with leopard skin. Another had a long, gray woollen robe like a dressing-gown, taken up by a waist-band. A third was garbed in a loose raiment of sheepskin, with the wool inside. Yet a fourth was arrayed in a dark-red tunic fastened by a belt of leather with silver ornamentations inlaid in wrought-iron. Suspended to the belt were a needle-case, tinder-pouch and steel, a bullet-pouch and bag, and a pretty dagger with a sheath of ebony, steel, and silver filigree. In their belts the Jogpas, in common with the majority of Tibetan men, wore a sword in front. Whether the coat was long or short, it was invariably loose and made to bulge at the waist, in order that it might contain a number of eating and drinking bowls (pu-kus), snuff-box, sundry bags of money, tsamba, and bricks of tea. It was owing to this custom that most Tibetan men, when seen at first, gave the impression of being very stout, whereas, as a matter of fact, they were somewhat lightly built. In the daytime the Tibetans left one arm and part of the chest bare, letting one sleeve hang. The reason for this practice was because in Tibet the days were hot and the nights cold, the drop in the thermometer at sunset in south-west Tibet being at times as much as 80 deg., and even 100 deg. As the Tibetans always slept in their clothes, the garments that protected their bodies from being frozen at night were found too heavy and warm in the hot sun, and, therefore, that simple expedient was adopted. When sitting down both arms were drawn from the sleeves, and the chest and back were left bare; but when standing, one arm, usually the left, was slipped in, to prevent the coat and its heavy contents falling off.

That the Jogpas had good digestions was evident from the way they ate, when, having concluded the sale of the yaks, they squatted down to a hearty meal of tsamba, chura (cheese), and tea. They took from their coats their wooden and metal pu-kus (bowls), and quickly filled them with tsamba, pouring over it steaming tea mixed, as usual, with butter and salt in a churn. With their dirty fingers they stirred the mixture in the bowl until a paste was formed, which they rolled into a ball and ate. The same operation was repeated over and over again. Each time, before refilling, the bowl was licked clean by rotating the pu-ku round the tongue. Feeling the heat of the sun after their meal, both men and women removed some of their garments, showing ornaments of gold, silver, and copper encircling their necks.

The women of the bandits, though far from beautiful, possessed a certain charm, due entirely to their wildness. Unlike most Tibetan women, they had good teeth. Their complexion was not specially dark. Only the black ointment, with which their cheeks, noses, and foreheads were smeared, made them appear darker than they really were, and was decidedly unbecoming. They had regular features. Their eyes and mouths were full of expression. Twisted into numberless little plaits, the hair was brought up and fastened over the head. A red turban kept the plaits in position, and was raised so as to show another row of little plaits decorating the forehead. The end of each of these plaits was joined to its immediate neighbor. These ladies wore large ear-rings of gold inlaid with malachite.

The children were talkative, and acted like grown-up people. They wore swords in their belts, even at the early age of eight or ten years.

In a basket that had been carried on one of the yaks I saw an infant a few months old. His superstitious mother snatched the child away in horror when I caressed him, and washed and rubbed the poor little fellow's face until the skin was sore, declaring that children died who were touched by strangers.

The men were just as superstitious. When I wished to buy some rice from them, they would not let me handle it till it had become my property. They objected each time that I stretched out my arm to touch the bag of rice, and eventually showed me a handful of rice at a distance, to let me judge of its quality. I first bought only the handful. Having assured myself that it was good, I then purchased the remainder.

We had marched on the same afternoon about half a mile in the direction of Mansarowar, when we were overtaken by one of the brigands, whom we had left a short time before. He rode toward us, apparently in great excitement. Having dismounted, he drew his sword and began chasing one of my yaks. This seemed so strange a proceeding that we were at a loss to understand his intentions. He screamed to us that he meant no harm, so we let him go on. He eventually overtook one yak, and, after a struggle with the unfortunate animal, he flung his arms round the beast's neck and rested his head between its horns. I was getting rather anxious, fearing that this effusion was only a dodge to cut the beast's throat. Much to my astonishment, I saw that the young Jogpa had seized a tuft of the yak's hair with his teeth and was trying to tear it off, while the unfortunate quadruped was making desperate efforts to shake off its persecutor. The hair eventually gave way, and with a tuft of it hanging from his tightly closed lips, the Jogpa let go the animal's head, and, brandishing his sword, next made a dash for its tail.

I thought it was time to interfere. I seized the man by his pigtail, while he in his turn clung to the tail of the frightened yak, which, bolting, dragged both of us after it at an unpleasant pace.

The Jogpa, in our mad flight, cut off a long lock of the yak's silky hair. Having secured this, he appeared to be quite satisfied, let go, and sheathed his sword. He quickly concealed the stolen locks in his coat, and then made low bows to us, sticking out his tongue, and declaring that unless such a precaution were taken when parting with a beast, bad luck was sure to come to you. This closed the incident. The Jogpa rode away perfectly happy, and we continued our march across the stony plain until we reached the ridge which extended across it, and in its continuation divided the two lakes. We climbed up to the top, rising to 16,450 feet. In order to make certain that the ridge really extended right across between the two lakes, I made an excursion about half way along its length, and found that the northern part seemed somewhat lower than the southern; but in the portion between the two sheets of water, and barring the central depression which I have already mentioned, it seemed everywhere several hundred feet above the level of the lakes. This expedition incurred some loss of time, and when night came we were still on the ridge.

From our camping-ground we saw fifteen black tents on the hillside. To the east, on the lake shore, there was a large Gomba, or Lamasery, with a temple and a number of mud houses. I estimated the distance between ourselves and the Gomba at only eight miles, a cheering fact, because I hoped to get there fresh provisions that would enable us to proceed more rapidly on our journey. We were now quite out of reach of the Gyanema soldiers, as well as of such troublesome officials as the Barca Tarjum and the Jong Pen of Taklakot. If we could only obtain a sufficient quantity of food during the night, and proceed across country early the next day, there would be little danger of being overtaken by our pursuers. The Shokas were again shaking with fright at the idea of entering a Tibetan settlement. I told them firmly that we must reach Tucker Gomba and village that night.

We had below us the two great lakes. Before I left this magnificent panorama I could not help taking a last long look at the marvellous scene. The Devil's Lake, with its broken, precipitous shores, its rocky islands and outstretching peninsulas, was far more enchanting to me than the sacred lake by its side, in which, according to tradition, dwelled Mahadeva and all the other good gods. Although the water was equally blue and limpid, although each lake had for a background the same magnificent Gangri chain, Mansarowar, the creation of Brahma, was not nearly so weirdly fascinating as its neighbor. Mansarowar had no ravines rising precipitously from its waters. It was almost a perfect oval without indentations. There was a stony, slanting plain some two miles wide between the water's edge and the hills surrounding it, except along the ridge separating it from the Rakastal, where its coast was slightly more rugged and precipitous.

Directly south of the lake was a chain of high peaks covered with snow, from which several streams descended. From where we stood we could see evident signs, as in the case of the Rakastal, that the level of the lake must at one time have been at least thirty feet higher than it was when I visited it. The slanting bed of small, rounded, smooth stones, which extended from one and a half to two miles beyond the water-line, was evidence enough that the level of the water must have been up to that point. I believe that the lake was gradually receding.

Round the lake there were several tumbling-down sheds in charge of Lamas. Only one important Gomba (monastery) and a temple were to be seen—viz., at Tucker Village.

I was told that a small Gomba and serai (resting-house for pilgrims), in charge of Lamas, stood to the north-west of the lake, but I cannot vouch for the accuracy of the statement, as I did not visit it myself, and the information I received from Tibetans regarding its position and importance was conflicting.

As the nature of the country suddenly changed between the Devil's Lake and Mansarowar, so, too, the weather and the temperature greatly changed. Over the Rakastal we invariably saw a lovely blue sky, whereas over Mansarowar heavy black clouds hung overhead and rain fell incessantly. From time to time the wind blew off the rain for a few minutes, and lovely effects of light played upon the water. Fresh clouds, with violent bursts of thunder, soon made the scene again gloomy and depressing.

It was much warmer on the Mansarowar side of the ridge than on the Rakastal side. Probably owing to the dampness, the air seemed quite thick to breathe, instead of being crisp and light, as it was along the shores of the Devil's Lake. Indeed, when I recall the Mansarowar, I cannot help thinking that it was the home, not only of the gods, but also of storms.

We descended some two miles to the plain, and crossed a rapid delta of the Langa Tsangpo, or Langa River; then another, a mile farther. As these rivers came directly from the snows, the water was very cold, and often three or four feet deep, owing to the thawing of the snow and ice during the day.



CHAPTER XII

AMONG THE LAMAS

No sooner had we reached the shores of the Mansarowar than the heavy clouds, which had been hanging over our heads, poured forth such torrents of rain that in a moment we were drenched to the skin. We were marching fast, as our heavy loads were now on the two yaks. Night was well advanced. The darkness was such that we could only see a few inches in front of us. We were actually walking in an inch or two of water. A fierce south-east wind drove the rain and hail so hard into our faces and hands as to cause us considerable pain. We were chilled in our wet garments, and our teeth were chattering. We walked quickly, keeping close together. From time to time a bright flash of lightning shone on the lake, and was followed by a terrific crash of thunder. We took advantage of what we could see during those few seconds of light to steer our way toward Tucker Village and Gomba.

The rivers, swollen by the rain, were extremely difficult to cross. The water seemed to flow so rapidly on the inclined bed that it was all we could do to keep on our feet. So wet were we that we did not even take the trouble to remove our shoes and garments, and we splashed, clothes and all, across the streams we encountered. Three times we went into the freezing water above our waists, and then marched on for endless miles on the pebbly and stony incline. We could no more see where we were going. The storm seemed to grow worse every minute. We stumbled on amid large stones and bowlders, and fell over one another on slippery rocks. Farther on we sank up to our knees in mud, which stuck in lumps to our feet and made them as heavy as lead. It was a downpour such as I had seldom before experienced.

"Are you quite sure that this lake is the home of the gods?" I inquired of Kachi. "Why, even on the Devil's Lake we had better weather than this."

"Yes, sir," replied Kachi. "But you make the gods angry, and that is why they send thunder, hail, and rain to stop your progress. You are going on against the gods, sir."

"Never mind, Kachi. It cannot pour forever."

At midnight we had no idea where we were; still we pushed on.

"Have we passed the Gomba? Have we not yet reached it?" were the questions we asked one another. It seemed to me that, at the rate we were going, we should have been near the place, and yet after another hour's tramp we had not struck it. I was under the impression that we had gone about nine miles. I expressed the opinion that we had passed it, but the Shokas insisted that we had not, so we again proceeded.

We had hardly gone five hundred yards when we heard the faint, distant, and most welcome bark of a dog. It came from the north-west, and we surmised that it must come from Tucker. We had steered too far south of the place, which accounted for our missing it in the darkness.

Guided by the yelping, we hastily directed our steps toward the settlement. Suddenly the first dog was joined by fifty others, all angry and noisy; but though we knew by the sound that we were approaching the village, it was so dark and stormy that we could not find the place. Only when we found ourselves close to the mud huts could we be certain that we had at last arrived.

It was then between 2 and 3 A.M. The rain still came down in torrents. There was no sign of the inhabitants being willing to give us shelter. It was quite out of the question to pitch our little tente d'abri, for our things were already wringing wet.

We knocked on a door so hard that the door itself nearly gave way. This was a shelter-house, a serai for pilgrims, and as we claimed to be pilgrims, we had, by the laws of the country, a right to admission. Nattoo, who had once before reached this lake by a different route, led us to this house.

"You are bandits," said a hoarse voice from inside, "or you would not come at this hour."

"No, we are not," we entreated. "Please open. We are well-to-do people. We will harm no one, and pay for all."

"Middu, Middu!" (Cannot be, no!) "You are brigands. I will not open."

To show that we were not what they imagined, Chanden Sing and Dola tapped again so gently at the door that the bolt gave way. The next moment ten strangers were squatting down round a warm fire drying their shrivelled-up, soaked skins by the flame of dried tamarisk and dung. The landlord—a doctor, by-the-way—was reassured when he saw that we had no evil intentions, and found some silver coins in the palm of his hand. Yet, he said, he rather wished we would go and sleep somewhere else. There was a capital empty hut next door, he suggested.

On our agreeing to this, he conducted us to the place, and there we spent the remainder of the night—or, rather, the early morning.

Our abode was a one-storied flat-roofed house built of stones and mud. There were two rooms—the first lighted by the door, the second and larger having a square opening in the ceiling for the triple purpose of ventilation, lighting, and outlet for the smoke of the fire, which burned directly underneath in the centre of the room. The beams and rafters supporting the roof had been brought over from the Indian side of the Himahlyas, as no timber was to be found in western Tibet.

This building was in charge of a young, half-crazy Lama, who was most profuse in salutations, and who remained open-mouthed, gazing at us for a considerable time. He was polite and attentive. He helped to dry our things in the morning, and, whenever we asked for anything, he ran out of the house in frantic fits of merriment, always bringing in what we required.

The heavy storm during the night had flooded our room. There was only one corner of the floor slightly drier than the rest. There we all slept huddled together. These serais have no claim to cleanliness. On this occasion all the minor animal life that inhabited the floor had, with a view to avoiding the water, retreated to the higher portion of the room, which we also had selected, so that one more trial was added to all our other miseries. We were simply devoured by a swarm of insects. This, indeed, was a dreadful pest, and one from which we suffered indescribable agonies, not only on this occasion, but whenever we halted near Tibetan camps.

When we rose in the morning the room was full of Tibetan men, women, and children, who seemed good-natured and friendly.

"Tanga chick!" (a silver coin equivalent to half a rupee) cried an old woman, who stuck a dried fish under my nose, professing volubly that it had been caught in Mansarowar, and that it would make its possessor the happiest of mortals. Others unrolled, from inside pieces of red cloth in which they were wrapped, jewellery in the form of brooches, rings, and ear-rings of brass or silver, inlaid with malachite.

"Gurmoh sum!" (Three rupees!), "Diu, diu, diu!" (Yes, yes, yes!), "Karuga ni!" (Two two-anna pieces!), "Gieut-cheke!" (A four-anna piece!), and so on, they called out the price of each article, all talking at the same time, in their anxiety to dispose of their goods.

The jewellery was of local manufacture. In some cases the pieces of malachite were firmly set, but usually a kind of paste was used for holding the stones, and, consequently, pretty as the jewels were, they soon broke.

The ear-rings were usually better made than the brooches. The most interesting of all, because simpler and more characteristic, were the flat silver charms, ornamented with a primitive design.

Several Lamas came to call on me in the morning, and professed to be pleased to see us; in fact, they asked me to go and pay them a visit in the Lamasery and temple. They said there was much sickness in the village, and as they believed me to be a Hindoo doctor, they wished I could do something to relieve their sufferings. I promised to do all I could. I was glad to have this unique chance of visiting a Lamasery. During this friendly visit to the Lamas I carried my rifle in my hand. The Tibetans were too friendly to be trusted.

When I came out of our stuffy, dark room, preceded and followed by a crowd of inquisitive natives, I had a good look round the village. After the storm of the night we fully expected that the weather would clear and that we might see a bright blue sky, but we had no luck. Over us hung again threatening clouds. The waters of the sacred lake, softly moved by the wind, washed gracefully upon the beach. Chanden Sing and Mansing, the two Hindoos, without any clothing except a loincloth, were squatting near the edge of the lake having their heads shaved by Bijesing, the Johari. I must confess that I was somewhat annoyed when I saw them using my best razor for the purpose. I repressed my anger on remembering that, according to their religion, the fact of being at Mansarowar absolved them from all sins. My two Hindoo servants, with heads turned toward Kelas Mount, were praying so fervently that I stood to watch them. They washed themselves repeatedly, and at last plunged into the water of the lake. On coming out, shivering with cold, they each took out of their clothes a silver rupee, and flung it into the lake as an offering to the God Mahadeva. Then, with hairless faces and heads, they dressed and came to pay their salaams to me, professing to be now happy and pure.

"Siva, the greatest of all gods, lives in the waters of Mansarowar!" exclaimed Chanden Sing, in a poetic mood. "I have bathed in its waters, and of its waters I have drunk. I have salaamed the great Kelas, the sight of which alone can absolve all sins of humanity. I shall now go to heaven."

"I shall be satisfied if we get as far as Lhassa," grumbled the sceptical Mansing, out of ear-reach of the Tibetans.

Chanden Sing, who was well versed in religious matters, explained that only Hindoo pilgrims who had lost both parents shaved their heads on visiting Mansarowar, as a sacrifice to Siva. If they were of a high caste, on their return to their native land after the pilgrimage it was customary to entertain all the Brahmins of the town to a banquet. According to Chanden Sing, a man who had bathed in Mansarowar was held in great respect by everybody, and commanded the admiration and envy of the entire world.