The Mansarowar Lake is about forty-six miles round. Pilgrims who wish to attain a great state of sanctity make a kora, or circuit, on foot along the water-line. The journey occupies from four to seven days, according to circumstances. One trip round will absolve the pilgrim from ordinary sins; twice the circuit clears the conscience of any murder; and three times will make honest and good a person who has killed his or her father, mother, brother, or sister. There are fanatics who make the tour on their knees; others accomplish the distance lying flat upon the ground after each step.

According to legend, Mansarowar was created by Brahma. He who shall bathe in its waters will share the paradise of Mahadeva! No matter what crimes he may have previously committed, a dip in the holy lake is sufficient to purge the soul as well as the body of any criminal!

When they had finished purifying themselves by washing, I ordered Chanden Sing to take his rifle and follow me into the Gomba. Having committed no crime, I thought I had better do without the holy bath, although the temptation was great to go and have a swim. The Lamas were so polite that I feared treachery on their part. To please my men and perhaps bring myself some luck, I hurled a couple of coins into the lake.

The large square building, with its walls painted red and its flattish dome of gilt copper rose by the waterside, and was both picturesque and handsome in its severe simplicity.

There came sounds from inside of deep, hoarse voices muttering prayers, of tinkling of bells and clanging of cymbals. From time to time a drum was beaten, giving a hollow sound, and an occasional and sudden touch upon a gong caused the air to vibrate until the notes faded away as they were carried over the holy lake.

After Chanden Sing and I had entered the Lamasery, the large door, which had been pushed wide open, was immediately closed. We were in a spacious court-yard, three sides of which had two tiers of galleries supported by columns.

This was the Lhaprang, or Lama's house. Directly in front of me was the Lha Kang, or temple, the floor of which was raised some five feet above the level of the ground. A large door led into it. At this entrance were, one on either side, recesses in which, by the side of a big drum, squatted two Lamas with books of prayers before them, a praying-wheel and a rosary in their hands, the beads of which they shifted after every prayer. At our appearance the monks ceased their prayers and beat the drums in an excited manner. There seemed to be some disturbance in the Gomba. Lamas old and young rushed to and fro out of their rooms, while a number of Chibbis, or novices (boys between the ages of twelve and twenty), lined the railings of the upper veranda with expressions of evident suspense and curiosity upon their faces. No doubt the Lamas had prepared a trap for us. I warned Chanden Sing to be on the alert, and set him on guard at the entrance of the temple. I deposited a few silver coins on the drum of the Lama to my right, took off my shoes in sign of respect, and—much to the amazement of the monks—quietly entered the house of worship. Partly astonished at the sight of the silver, and more so at my want of caution, the Lamas, of whom there were a good number in the court-yard, remained motionless and dumb. The High Lama, or Father Superior of the monastery, at last came forward stooping low. He placed one thumb above the other and put his tongue out to show his approval of my visit to the many images representing deities or sanctified Buddhist heroes which were grouped along the walls of the temple. The largest of these figures were about five feet high, the others about three feet. Some were carved out of wood, their drapery and ornaments being fairly artistic in arrangement and execution, while others were fashioned in gilt metal. There were images in a sitting posture and some standing erect. They rested either on ornamented or plain pedestals painted blue, red, white, and yellow. Many wore the ancient Chinese double-winged cap, and were placed in recesses in the wall decorated with stuffs, wood-carvings, and rough paintings of images.

At the foot of these images was a long shelf, on which, in bright brass vessels of all sizes, were oblations of tsamba, dried fruit, chura, wheat, and rice, offered, through the Lamas, by devotees to the different saints. Some of the ears of barley were ornamented with imitation leaves modelled in butter, and colored red, blue, and yellow.

The ceiling of the temple was draped in red woollen cloth similar to that of the clothes worn by the Lamas. From it hung hundreds of strips of silk, wool, and cotton of all colors. The roof was supported by columns of wood forming a quadrangle in the centre of the temple. These were joined by a balustrade, compelling the worshippers to make a circuit from left to right, in order to pass before the several images.

In a shrine in the central part of the wall facing the entrance was Urghin, or Kunjuk-chick (God alone). In front of it on a kind of altar covered with a carpet were to be seen donations far more abundant than those offered to other images.

The Lama, pointing at it, told me that it was a good God. I saluted it and deposited a small offering in the collection-box. This seemed to please the Lama greatly, for he at once fetched a holy-water amphora, hung with long "veils of friendship and love,"[6] and poured some scented liquid on the palms of my hands. Then, producing a strip of veil, he wetted it with the scent and presented it to me. The majority of pilgrims generally go round the inside of the temple on their knees, but, notwithstanding that, to avoid offending prejudices, I generally follow the principle of doing in Rome as the Romans do, I could not here afford the chance of placing myself at such a disadvantage in case of a surprise. The High Lama explained the different images to me, and threw handfuls of rice over them as he called them by their respective names, all of which I tried hard to remember, but, alas! before I could get back to the serai and scribble them down on paper, they had all escaped my memory. A separate entrance led from the monastery into the temple.

Lights, burning in brass bowls, their wicks being fed with melted butter, were scattered on the floor in the central quadrangle. Near them lay oblong books of prayers printed on the smooth yellow Tibetan paper made from a fibrous bark. Near these books were small drums and cymbals. One double drum, I noticed, was made from reversed sections of human skulls. My attention was also attracted by some peculiar head-gear worn by the Lamas during their services and ceremonies, when they not only accompany their chanting and prayers with the beating of drums and clashing of cymbals, but they also make a noise on cane flutes, tinkle hand-bells, and sound a large gong. The noise of these instruments is at times so great that the prayers themselves cannot be heard. Awe-inspiring masks are used by Lamas in their eccentric and mystic dances. The Lamas spend the entire day in the temple and consume much tea with butter and salt in it, which is brought to them in cups by Lamas of an inferior order acting as servants. They pass hour after hour in their temples, apparently absorbed in praying to the God above all gods, the incarnation of all the saints together united in a trinity, the Kunjuk-Sum.

Kunjuk-Sum, translated literally, means "the three deities." Some take it to refer to the elements—air, water, and fire—which in the Tibetan mind are symbols of speech, charity, and strength or life. One great point in Buddhism is the love and respect for one's father and mother, and the prohibition to injure one's neighbors in any way. The latter is preached, but seldom practised. According to the commandments contained in some eight hundred volumes called "the Kajars," the Tibetans believe in a heaven (the Deva Tsembo) free from all anxieties of human existence, full of love and joy. Their heaven is ruled over by a god of infinite goodness, helped by countless disciples called the Chanchubs, who spend their existence in performing charitable deeds among living creatures. With a number of intermediate places of happiness and punishment, they even believe in a hell where the souls of sinners are tormented by fire and ice.

"God sees and knows everything, and He is everywhere," exclaimed the Lama, "but we cannot see Him! Only the Chanchubs can see and speak to Him."

"What are the evil qualities to be mostly avoided?" I inquired of the High Lama, who spoke a little Hindustani.

"Luxury, pride, and envy," he replied.

"Do you ever expect to become a saint?" I asked him.

"Yes, I hope so; but it takes five hundred transmigrations of an uncontaminated soul before one can be a saint."

Then, as if waking to a sudden thought, he seized my hand impulsively and spread my fingers apart. Having done this, he muttered two or three words of surprise. His face became serious, even solemn, and he treated me with strange obsequiousness. Rushing out of the temple, he went to inform the other Lamas of his discovery, whatever it was. They crowded round him, and from their words and gestures it was easy to see they were bewildered.

When I left the company of the strange idols and came into the court-yard, every Lama wished to examine and touch my hand. The sudden change in their behavior was to me a source of great curiosity, until I learned the real cause of it some weeks later.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 6: Kata (veil of friendship and love)—a long piece of gauze presented on all occasions in Tibet in order to show friendly feelings.]



CHAPTER XIII

LIFE IN THE MONASTERIES

Before I left the monastery the Lamas asked me many questions about India and concerning medicine. They also questioned me as to whether I had heard that a young Englishman had crossed over the frontier with a large army, which the Jong Pen of Taklakot had defeated, beheading the leader and the principal members of the expedition.

I professed to be ignorant of these facts. I was amused at the casual way in which the Jong Pen of Taklakot had disposed of the bear-skin before he had even caught the bear. The Lamas mistook me for a Hindoo doctor, owing to the color of my face, which was sunburnt, and had long remained unwashed. I wore no disguise. They thought that I was on a pilgrimage round the Mansarowar Lake. They appeared anxious to know whether illnesses were cured by occult science in India, or by medicine only. I, who, on the other hand, was more interested in getting information than in giving it, turned the conversation on the Lamas themselves.

There are sects of red, yellow, white, and black Lamas. The red ones are the older and more numerous throughout the country. Next to them come the yellow Lamas, the Gelupkas, equally powerful in political and religious matters, but not quite so numerous. The white Lamas and the black Lamas, the Julinba, are the craftsmen in the monasteries. They do the painting, printing, pottery, and the ornamentation of temples, besides attending on the other Lamas and making themselves useful in the capacities of cooks, shepherds, water-carriers, writers, and last, but not least, executioners. The Lamaseries are usually rich. The Tibetans are a deeply devout race, and the Lamas are not backward in extorting money, under pretences of all kinds, from the ignorant worshippers. Besides attending to their religious functions, the Lamas are traders. They carry on a brisk money-lending business, charging a high interest, which falls due every month. If this should remain unpaid, all the property of the borrower is seized, and if insufficient to repay the loan the debtor himself becomes a slave of the monastery. The well-fed countenances of the Lamas are, with few exceptions, evident proof that notwithstanding their occasional bodily privations, they do not allow themselves to suffer in any way. They lead a smooth and comfortable existence of comparative luxury.

The larger Lamaseries receive a yearly Government allowance. Considerable sums are collected from offerings of the faithful, and other moneys are obtained in all sorts of ways which, in any country less religious than Tibet, would be considered dishonorable and even criminal. In Tibet it is well known that, except in the larger towns, nearly all people, excluding brigands and Lamas, are poor, while the monks and their agents thrive on the fat of the land. The masses are maintained in complete ignorance. Seldom is a layman found who can read or write.

The Lamaseries and the Lamas, as well as the land and property belonging to them, are absolutely free from all taxes and dues. Each Lama and novice is supported for life, and receives an allowance of tsamba, bricks of tea, and salt. The Lamas are recruited from all ranks. Honest folks, murderers, thieves, swindlers—all are eagerly welcomed in joining the brotherhood. One or two male members of each family in Tibet take monastic orders, and thus the monks obtain a powerful influence over each house or tent-hold. It is hardly an exaggeration to say that in Tibet half the members of the male population are Lamas.

In each monastery are found Lamas, Chibbis,[7] and a lower grade of ignorant and depraved Lamas—slaves, as it were, of the higher Lamas. The latter dress, and have clean-shaven heads like their superiors. They do all the handiwork of the monastery; but they are mere servants, and take no direct, active part in the politics of the Lama Government. The Chibbis are novices. They enter the Lamasery when young, and remain students for many years. They are constantly under the teaching and supervision of the older ones. Confession is practised, from inferior to superior. After undergoing successfully several examinations, a Chibbi becomes a Lama, which word translated means "high-priest." These Chibbis take minor parts in the strange religious ceremonies in which the Lamas, disguised in skins and ghastly masks, sing and dance with extraordinary contortions to the accompaniment of weird music of bells, horns, flutes, cymbals, and drums.

Each large monastery has at its head a Grand Lama, not to be confounded with the Dalai Lama of Lhassa, who is believed, or rather supposed, to have an immortal soul transmigrating from one body into another.

The Lamas eat, drink, and sleep together in the monastery, with the exception of the Grand Lama, who has a room to himself. For one "moon" in every twelve they observe a strict seclusion, which they devote to praying. During that time they are not allowed to speak. They fast for twenty-four hours at a time, with only water and butter-tea, eating on fast-days only sufficient food to remain alive, and depriving themselves of everything else, including snuff and spitting—the two most common habits among Tibetan men.

The Lamas have great pretensions to infallibility, and on account of this they claim, and obtain, the veneration of the people, by whom they are supported, fed, and clothed. I found the Lamas, as a rule, intelligent, but inhuman, even barbarously cruel and dishonorable. This was not my own experience alone. I heard the same from the overridden natives, who wished for nothing better than a chance to shake off their yoke.

Availing themselves of the absolute ignorance in which they succeed in keeping the people, the Lamas practise to a great extent strange arts, by which they profess to cure illnesses, discover murders and thefts, stop rivers from flowing, and bring storms about at a moment's notice. Certain ceremonies, they say, drive away the evil spirits that cause disease. The Lamas are adepts at hypnotic experiments, by which means they contrive to let the subjects under their influence see many things which are not there in reality. To this power are due the frequent reports of apparitions of Buddha, seen generally by single individuals, and the visions of demons, the accounts of which terrify the simple-minded natives. Rather than get more closely acquainted with these evil spirits the ignorant pay the monastery whatever little cash they may possess.

Mesmerism plays an important part in the weird Lama dances, which show the strangest kind of movements and attitudes. The dancer finally falls into a cataleptic state, and remains rigid, as if dead, for a long time.

The larger Lamaseries support one or more Lama sculptors, who travel to the most inaccessible spots in the district, in order to carve on cliffs, rocks, stones, or on pieces of horn, the everlasting inscription, "Omne mani padme hun," which one sees all over the country.

Weird and picturesque places, such as the highest points on mountain passes, gigantic bowlders, rocks near the sources of rivers, or any spot where a mani wall exists, are the places most generally selected by these artists upon which to engrave the magic words alluding to the reincarnation of Buddha from a lotus flower.

The prayer-wheels, those mechanical contrivances by which the Tibetans pray to their god by means of water, wind, and hand power, are also manufactured by Lama artists. The larger ones, moved by water, are constructed by the side of, or over, a stream. The huge cylinders on which the entire Tibetan prayer-book is inscribed are revolved by the flowing water. The prayers moved by wind-power are merely long strips of cloth on which prayers are often printed. As long as there is motion there is prayer, say the Tibetans, so these strips of cloth are left to flap in the wind. The small prayer-wheels, revolved by hand, are of two different kinds, and are made either of silver or copper. Those for home use are cylinders about six inches high. Inside these revolve on pivots the rolls of prayers which, by means of a projecting knob above the machine, the worshipper sets in motion. The prayers can be seen revolving inside through a square opening in the cylinder. The prayer-wheel in every-day use in Tibet is usually constructed of copper, sometimes of brass, and frequently entirely, or partly, of silver. The cylinder has two movable lids, between which the prayer-roll fits tightly. A handle with an iron rod is passed through the centre of the cylinder and roll, and is kept in its place by means of a knob. A ring, encircling the cylinder, is attached to a short hanging chain and weight. This, when started by a jerk of the hand, gives the wheel a rotatory movement, which must, according to rule, be from left to right. The words "Omne mani padme hun," or simply "Mani, mani," are repeated while the wheel is in motion.

The more ancient wheels have prayers written by hand instead of being printed. Charms, such as rings of malachite, jade, bone, or silver, are often attached to the weight and chain by which the rotatory movement is given to the wheel. These praying-machines are found in every Tibetan family. Every Lama possesses one. They are kept jealously, and it is difficult for strangers to purchase the genuine ones.

Besides the rosary, which is used as with the Roman Catholics, one prayer for each bead, the Lamas have a brass instrument which they twist between the palms of their hands while saying prayers. It is from two and a half to three inches long, and is rounded so as to be easily held in the hollow of the two hands.

In Tibet, as in other Buddhist countries, there are nunneries as well as Lamaseries. The nuns, most unattractive in themselves, shave their heads, and practise witchcraft and magic, just as the Lamas do. They are looked down upon by the masses. In some of these nunneries strict confinement is actually enforced. The women of the nunneries are quite as immoral as their brethren of the Lamaseries, and at their best they are but a low type of humanity.

The only Lamas who, at certain periods of the year, are legally allowed an unusual amount of freedom with women, are those who practise the art of making musical instruments and eating-vessels out of human bones. The skull is used for making drinking-cups, tsamba bowls, and single and double drums. The bone of the upper arm, thigh-bone, and shin-bone are turned into trumpets and pipes. These particular Lamas are said to relish human blood, which they drink out of the cups made from men's skulls.

When I left the Gomba—my new friends, the Lamas, bowing down to the ground as I departed—I walked about the village to examine all there was to be seen.

Along the water's edge at the east end of the village stood in a row a number of tumbling-down Choktens of mud and stone. These structures consisted of a square base surmounted by a moulding, and an upper decoration in ledges, topped by a cylindrical column. Each was supposed to contain a piece of bone, cloth, or metal, and books or parts of them, that had once belonged to a great man or a saint. Roughly drawn images were occasionally found in them. In rare cases, when cremation had been applied, the ashes were collected in a small earthenware urn and deposited in one of the Choktens. The ashes were made into a paste with clay, and then flattened into a medallion on which a representation of Buddha was either stamped from a mould or engraved with a pointed tool.

The interior of the houses at Tucker was no better than the outside. Each habitation had a walled court-yard. The top of the wall, as well as the edge of the flat roof of the house, was lined with masses of tamarisk for fuel. In the court-yard sheep and goats were penned at night. The human beings who occupied the rooms were dirty beyond all description. There were hundreds of flying-prayers over the monastery, as well as over each house. The people, laughing and chatting, stood on the roofs watching us.

While I was strolling about some fifty or sixty men armed with matchlocks and swords appeared on the scene. I looked upon them with suspicion, but Kachi reassured me, and said they were not soldiers, but a powerful band of robbers encamped about half a mile off, and on friendly terms with the Lamas. As a precaution I loaded my rifle. This was quite sufficient to cause a stampede of the armed crowd, followed, in the panic, by all the other villagers who had collected round us. Like all Tibetans, they were a miserable lot, though powerfully built and with plenty of bluster about them.

Early in the morning I had made inquiries about provisions, and had arranged for the purchase of two fat sheep and some four hundred and fifty pounds of food—flour, rice, tsamba, ghur (sweet paste), sugar, salt, and butter. Several Tibetans stated they could supply me with any quantity I required. Among others was a Shoka trader from Buddhi, who promised to bring me, within an hour, a sufficient quantity of food to last us ten men twenty-five days. I noticed, when these men left, that two of my Shokas ran after them, and entered into an excited discussion with them. Some two or three hours later the traders returned, swearing that not an ounce of food could be obtained in the place. The way in which these men could lie was marvellous. I reprimanded my Shokas, threatening to punish them severely if my suspicions of their treachery proved to be well founded.

The Shokas, finding themselves discovered, and through fear of the Tibetans, were now again demoralized. It was no use keeping them by force, and I decided to discharge them. From the moment I had entered the forbidden country I had been compelled to protect myself against them quite as much as against the Tibetans. I reflected, however, when I made up my mind to let them go, that these fellows had stood for my sake hardships and privations which few men could stand. In paying them off I therefore rewarded them suitably, and in their gratitude they undertook to bring back safely across the frontier part of my baggage containing photographs, ethnological collections, etc. This promise was duly fulfilled. With infinite trouble I then managed to purchase enough provisions to last five men ten days.

The whole party accompanied me three and a quarter miles farther, where in sight of the tumbling-down Panku Gomba, a mile to the west of us, we halted in order to make the necessary arrangements for our parting, unseen by the Tibetans. I took observations for latitude and longitude. The water of the hypsometrical apparatus boiled at 185 deg. Fahrenheit, fifty feet above the level of the lake, the temperature of the air being 76 deg. and the hour 10 A.M.

We could see a high snowy chain to the south of us, extending approximately from south-west to north-east, starting from the Nimo Namzil peak.

When everything was ready the five Shokas, including Kachi and Dola, left me, swearing by the sun and all that they held most sacred that they would in no way betray me to the Tibetans.

Bijesing the Johari and Nattoo agreed to accompany me as far as the Maium Pass, so that my party, including myself, now was reduced to only five men.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 7: Chibbis—also frequently pronounced Chabis.]



CHAPTER XIV

ANOTHER DISASTER

Everything promised well when, with my reduced party, I started toward the north-east, first skirting the lake for three and a quarter miles, then ascending over the barren hill ranges in an easterly direction for a distance of twelve miles. The journey was uneventful. My four men seemed in the best of spirits. We descended to a plain where water and grass could be found. Having come upon a camping-ground with a protecting wall, such as are usually put up by Tibetans at their halting-places, we made ourselves comfortable for the night, notwithstanding the high wind and a passing storm of hail and rain, which drenched us to the skin. The thermometer during the night went down to 34 deg.

At sunrise I started to make a reconnaissance from the top of a high hill wherefrom I could get a bird's-eye view of a great portion of the surrounding country. It was of the utmost importance for me to find out which would be the easiest way to get through the intricate succession of hills and mountains, and I also wished to ascertain the exact direction of a large river to the north of us, which discharged its waters into the Mansarowar. I started alone. A three and a half miles' climb brought me to the summit of a hill, 16,480 feet, where I was able to ascertain all I wished to know. I returned to camp, and we proceeded on a course of 73 deg. 30', crossing over a pass 16,450 feet high. Then we found ourselves in front of a hill, the summit of which resembled a fortress, with flying-prayers flapping in the wind. At the foot of the hill were some twenty ponies grazing.



With the aid of my telescope I made sure that what at first appeared to be a castle was nothing but a work of nature. Apparently no one was concealed up there. The ponies, however, indicated the presence of men, and we had to proceed with caution. In fact, rounding the next hill, we discerned in the grassy valley below a number of black tents, two hundred yaks, and about a thousand sheep. We kept well out of sight behind the hill. We went a long way around it, and at last descended into an extensive valley. The river described a semicircle through this valley, close to the southern hill range, and it was joined by a tributary coming from the south-east. This tributary at first appeared to me larger than what I afterward recognized to be the main stream. I followed its course for four miles, but found that it was taking me in a more southerly direction than I wished, and had to retrace my steps along a flattish plateau.

Meeting two Tibetan women, I purchased, after endless trouble, a fat sheep out of a flock they were driving before them. These two females carried rope slings in their hands. The accuracy with which they could fling stones and hit the mark at great distances was really marvellous. For a few coppers they gave an exhibition of their skill, hitting any sheep they liked in their flock, even at distances of thirty and forty yards. I tried to obtain from these dangerous creatures a little information about the country, but they professed absolute ignorance.

"We are servants," they said, "and we know nothing. We know each sheep in our flock, and that is all. Our lord, whose slaves we are, knows all. He knows where the rivers come from, and the ways to all Gombas. He is a great king."

"And where does he live?" I inquired.

"There, two miles off, where that smoke rises to the sky."

The temptation was great to go and call on this "great king," who knew so many things. We might probably persuade him to sell us provisions. As we had none too many, they would be of great assistance to us. Anyhow the visit would be interesting. I decided to risk it.

We steered toward the several columns of smoke that rose before us, and at last we approached a large camp of black tents. Our appearance caused a commotion. Men and women rushed in and out of their tents in great excitement.

"Jogpas! jogpas!" (Brigands! brigands!) somebody in their camp shouted. In a moment their matchlocks were made ready, and the few men who had remained outside the tents drew their swords, holding them clumsily in their hands in a way hardly likely to terrify any one.

To be taken for brigands was a novel experience for us. The war-like array was in strange contrast to the terrified expressions on the faces of those who stood there armed. In fact, when Chanden Sing and I walked forward and encouraged them to sheathe their steels and put their matchlocks by, they readily followed our advice, and brought out rugs for us to sit upon. Having overcome their fright, they were most anxious to be pleasant.

"Kiula gunge gozai deva labodu" (You have nice clothes). I began the conversation, attempting flattery, to put the chieftain at his ease.

"Lasso, leh" (Yes, sir), answered the Tibetan, apparently astonished, and looking at his own attire with an air of comical pride.

His answer was sufficient to show me that the man considered me his superior. Had he thought me an equal or inferior he would have said lasso without the leh.

"Kiula tuku taka zando?" (How many children have you?) I rejoined.

"Ni" (Two).

"Chuwen bogpe, tsamba, chon won i?" (Will you sell me flour or tsamba?)

"Middu" (Have not got any) he replied, making several quick semicircular movements with the upturned palm of his right hand.

This is a most characteristic gesture of the Tibetan, and nearly invariably accompanies the word "No," instead of a movement of the head, as with us.

"Keran ga naddoung?" (Where are you going?) he asked me, eagerly.

"Nhgarang ne koroun!" (I am a pilgrim!) "Lungba quorghen neh jelghen" (I go looking at sacred places).

"Gopria zaldo. Chakzal wortze. Tsamba middu. Bogpe middu, guram middu, die middu, kassur middu" (I am very poor. Please hear me. I have no tsamba, no flour, no sweet paste, no rice, no dried fruit).

This, of course, I knew to be untrue. I calmly said that I would remain seated where I was until food was sold to me. At the same time I produced one or two silver coins, the display of which in Tibet was always the means of hastening the transaction of business. In small handfuls, after each of which the Tibetans swore that they had not another particle to sell, I managed, with somewhat of a trial to my patience, to purchase some twenty pounds of food. The moment the money was handed over they had a quarrel among themselves about its division, and they almost came to blows. Greed and avarice are the most marked characteristics of the Tibetans. Tibetans of any rank are not ashamed to beg in the most abject manner for the smallest silver coin.

The men of the party were picturesque. They had flat, broad noses, high cheek-bones, and small, slanting (mere slits), piercing eyes. Their hair was plaited in long pig-tails ornamented with pieces of red cloth, discs of ivory, and silver coins. Nearly all wore the typical dark-red coat, with ample sleeves hanging over the hands, and pulled up at the waist to receive eating-bowls, snuff-box, and other articles of daily use. All were armed with jewelled swords.

They stood at a respectable distance, studying our faces and watching our movements with apparent interest. I have hardly ever seen such cowardice as among these big, hulking fellows. To a European it scarcely seemed conceivable. The mere raising of one's eyes was sufficient to make a man dash away frightened. With the exception of the chief, who pretended to be unafraid, notwithstanding that he was trembling with fear, they one and all showed ridiculous nervousness when I approached them to examine the ornaments they wore round their necks, such as the charm-boxes that dangled prominently on their chests. The larger of these charm-boxes contained an image of Buddha, the others were mere empty brass or silver cases.

When night came I did not consider it safe to encamp near the Tibetans. We moved away, driving our yaks before us and dragging the newly purchased sheep. We marched two and a half miles, and then halted in a depression (16,050 feet), where we had a little shelter from the wind, which blew with great force. To our right was a short range of fairly high mountains stretching from north to south. Through a gorge flowed a large stream. At that time of the evening we could not hope to cross it, but an attempt might be made in the morning, when the cold of the night would have checked the melting of the snows, and therefore lowered the level of the water in the river. Heavy showers had fallen during the day. The moment the sun went down there was a regular downpour. We had pitched our little shelter-tent, but we had to clear out of it a couple of hours later, the small basin in which we had pitched it having turned into a regular pond. There was no alternative for us but to come out into the open. Where the water did not flood us the wind was so high and the ground so moist that it was not possible to keep our tent up. The pegs would not hold. The hours of the night seemed long as we sat tightly wrapped in our waterproofs, with feet, hands, and ears almost frozen. At dawn there were no signs of the storm abating. We had not been able to light a fire in the evening, nor could we light one now. We were cold, hungry, and miserable. The thermometer had been down to 36 deg. Toward noon, the rain still pouring down in torrents and there being no sign of its clearing, we loaded our yaks and entered the gorge between the snow-covered mountains. With difficulty we crossed the tributary we had so far followed, and then proceeded along the right bank of the main stream.

We were so exhausted and wet that when near the evening we came to an enormous cliff, on the rocky face of which a patient Lama sculptor had engraved in huge letters the characters, Omne mani padme hun, we halted. The gorge was very narrow here. We found a dry spot under a big bowlder, but as there was not sufficient room for all five, the two Shokas went under the shelter of another rock a little way off. This seemed natural enough. I took care of the weapons and the scientific instruments, while the Shokas had under their own sheltering bowlder the bags containing nearly all our provisions except the reserve of tinned meats. The rain pelted all night, the wind howled. Again we could not light a fire. The thermometer did not descend below 38 deg., but the cold, owing to our drenched condition, seemed intense. In fact, we were so chilled that we did not venture to eat. Crouching in the small dry space at our disposal and without tasting food, we eventually fell fast asleep. I slept soundly for the first time since I had been in Tibet. It was broad daylight when I woke up.



Taking advantage of the storm, the men Nattoo and Bijesing had escaped during the night with the loads intrusted to them. I discovered their tracks, half washed away, in the direction from which we had come the previous night. The rascals had bolted, and there would have been comparatively little harm in that, if only they had not taken with them all the stock of provisions for my two Hindoo servants, and a quantity of good rope, straps, and other articles, which we were bound to miss at every turn, and which we had absolutely no means of replacing.

Of thirty picked servants who had started with me, twenty-eight had now abandoned me. Only two remained faithful: Chanden Sing and Mansing the leper!

The weather continued horrible. No food for my men and no fuel! I proposed to the two Hindoos to go back also and let me continue alone. I described to them the dangers of following me farther, and warned them fully, but they absolutely refused to leave me.

"Sir, we are not Shokas," were their words. "If you die, we will die with you. We fear not death. We are sorry to see you suffer, sir, but never mind us. We are only poor people, therefore it is of no consequence."

This last disaster should, I suppose, have deterred us from further progress. It somehow made me even more determined to persist than before. It was no light job to have to run afield to capture the yaks, which had wandered off in search of grass; and having found them and driven them back to our primitive camping-place, to tie upon their backs the pack-saddles, and fasten on them the heavy tin-lined cases of scientific instruments and photographic plates. This task was only part of the day's work, which included the writing up of my diary, the registering of observations, sketching, photographing, changing plates in cameras, occasionally developing negatives, surveying, cleaning rifles, revolver, etc. The effort of lifting up the heavy cases on to the pack-saddles was, owing to our exhausted condition, a severe tax on our strength. The tantalizing restlessness of the yaks forced us to make many attempts before we actually succeeded in properly fastening the loads, particularly as the Shoka deserters had stolen our best pieces of rope and the leather straps. One of the remaining pieces of rope was hardly long enough to make the final knot to one of the girths. Neither Chanden Sing nor Mansing had sufficient strength to pull and make it join. I made them hold the yak by the horns to keep him steady while I pulled my hardest. I succeeded with a great effort, and was about to get up when a terrific blow from the yak's horn struck me in the skull an inch behind my right ear and sent me rolling head over heels. I was stunned for several moments. I gradually recovered, but the back of my head was swollen and sore for many days after.

We proceeded along the right bank of the river between reddish hills and distant high snowy mountains to the north-west and east-south-east of us, which we saw from time to time when the rain ceased and the sky cleared. The momentary lifting of the clouds was ever followed by another downpour. Marching became unpleasant and difficult, sinking, as we were, deep in the mud. Toward evening we suddenly discovered some hundred and fifty soldiers riding full gallop in pursuit of us along the river valley. We pushed on, and having got out of their sight behind a hill, we changed our course and rapidly climbed up to the top of the hill range. My two men with the yaks concealed themselves on the other side. I remained lying flat on the top of the hill, spying with my telescope the movements of our pursuers. They rode unsuspectingly on, the tinkling of their horse-bells sounding pleasant to the ear in that deserted spot. Thinking that we had continued our way along the river, they rode beyond the spot where we had left the path. Owing to their haste to catch us up, they did not notice our tracks up the hillside.

Rain began to fall heavily again, and we remained encamped at 17,000 feet, with our loads ready for flight at any moment. The night was spent none too comfortably. I sat up all night, rifle in hand, in case of a surprise, and I was indeed glad when morning came. The rain had stopped, but we were now enveloped in a white mist which chilled us. I was tired. Chanden Sing was intrusted to keep a sharp watch while I tried to sleep.

"Hazur, hazur, jaldi apka banduk!" (Sir, sir, quick, your rifle!) muttered my servant, rousing me. "Do you hear the sound of bells?"

The tinkling was quite plain. Our pursuers were approaching, evidently in strong force. There was no time to be lost. To successfully evade them appeared impossible. I decided to meet them rather than attempt flight. Chanden Sing and I were armed with our rifles, Mansing with his Gourkha knife. We awaited their arrival. There came out of the mist a long procession of gray, phantom-like figures, each one leading a pony. The advance-guard stopped from time to time to examine the ground; having discovered our footprints only partially washed away by the rain, they were following them up. Seeing us at last on the top of the hill, they halted. There was a commotion among them. They held an excited consultation. Some of them unslung their matchlocks, others drew their swords, while we sat on a rock above and watched them attentively.

After hesitating a little, four officers signalled to us that they wished to approach.

"You are a great king," shouted one at the top of his voice, "and we want to lay these presents at your feet." He pointed to some small bags which the other three men were carrying. "Gelbo! Chakzal! Chakzal!" (We salute you, king!)

I felt anything but regal after the wretched night we had spent, but I wished to treat the natives with due deference and politeness whenever it was possible.

I said that four men might approach, but the bulk of the party must withdraw to a spot about two hundred yards away. This they immediately did—a matter of some surprise to me after the war-like attitude they had assumed at first. They laid their matchlocks down in the humblest of fashions, and duly replaced their swords in their sheaths. The four officers approached, and when quite close to us, threw the bags on the ground and opened them to show us the contents. There was tsamba, flour, chura (a kind of cheese), guram (sweet paste), butter, and dried fruit. The officers were most profuse in their salutations. They had removed their caps and thrown them on the ground, and they kept their tongues sticking out of their mouths until I begged them to draw them in. They professed to be the subordinates of the Tokchim Tarjum, who had despatched them to inquire after my health, and who wished me to look upon him as my best friend. Well aware of the difficulties we must encounter in travelling through such an inhospitable country, the Tarjum, they said, wished me to accept the gifts they now laid before me. With these they handed me a kata, or "the scarf of love and friendship," a long piece of thin silk-like gauze, the end of which had been cut into a fringe. In Tibet these katas accompany every gift. A caller is expected instantly on arrival to produce a kata for presentation to his host. The High Lamas sell katas to devotees. One of these scarves is presented to those who leave a satisfactory offering after visiting a Lamasery. If a verbal message is sent to a friend, a kata is sent with it. Among officials and Lamas small pieces of this silk gauze are enclosed even in letters. Not to give or send a kata to an honored visitor is considered a breach of good manners, and is equivalent to a slight.

I hastened to express my thanks for the Tarjum's kindness, and I handed the messengers a sum in silver of three times the value of the articles presented. The men seemed pleasant and friendly, and we chatted for some time. Much to my annoyance, poor Mansing, bewildered at the sight of so much food, could no longer resist the pangs of hunger. Caring little for the breach of etiquette and likely consequences, he proceeded to fill his mouth with handfuls of flour, cheese, and butter. This led the Tibetans to suspect that we must be starving, and with their usual shrewdness they determined to take advantage of our condition.

"The Tarjum," said the oldest of the messengers, "wishes you to come back and be his guest. He will feed you and your men, and you will then go back to your country."

"Thank you," I replied; "we do not want the Tarjum's food, nor do we wish to go back. I am greatly obliged for his kindness, but we will continue our journey."

"Then," angrily said a young and powerful Tibetan, "if you continue your journey, we will take back our gifts."

"And your kata!" I rejoined, flinging first the large ball of butter into his chest, and after it the small bags of flour, tsamba, cheese, fruit, etc., a minute earlier prettily laid out before us.

This unexpected bombardment quite upset the Tibetans, who, with powdered coats, hair, and faces, scampered away as best they could. Chanden Sing, always as quick as lightning when it was a case of hitting, pounded away with the butt of his rifle at the roundest part of one ambassador's body, when in his clumsy clothes he attempted to get up and run.

Mansing, the philosopher of our party, interrupted in his feed, but undisturbed by what was going on, picked up the fruit and cheese and pieces of butter scattered all over the ground, mumbling that it was a shame to throw away good food in such a reckless fashion.

The soldiers, who had been watching attentively from a distance the different phases of the interview, considered it prudent to beat a hasty retreat. Mounting their steeds with unmistakable despatch, they galloped in confusion down the hill, and then along the valley of the river, until they were lost to sight in the mist. The ambassadors, who had been unable to rejoin their ponies, followed on foot as quickly as possible under the circumstances, with due allowance for the rarefied air and rough ground.

Their cries of distress, caused by fear alone, for we had done them no real harm, served to strengthen the contempt in which my men by now held the Tibetan soldiers and their officers.

The scene was truly comical. We laughed heartily.

When the Tibetans were out of sight, Chanden Sing and I pocketed our pride and helped Mansing to collect the dried dates, apricots, the pieces of chura, butter, and guram. Then, having loaded our yaks, we marched on.



CHAPTER XV

FOLLOWED BY TIBETAN SOLDIERS

We were not in luck. The weather continued squally in the morning, and in the afternoon the rain was again torrential. We went over uninteresting and monotonous gray country. A chain of snowy peaks stretched from south-west to north-east. We waded through a fairly deep and cold river, and afterward climbed over a pass 17,450 feet high. A number of Tibetans with flocks of several thousand sheep came in sight, but we avoided them. They did not see us.

At the point where we crossed it, the main stream described a graceful bend. We climbed over undulating and barren country to an elevation of 17,550 feet, where we found several small lakelets. Having marched that day fourteen and a half miles in a drenching rain, we descended into a large valley. Here we had great difficulty in finding a spot where to rest for the night. The plain was simply a swamp, with several lakes and ponds, and we sank everywhere in mud and water. All our bedding and clothes were soaked to such an extent that it really made no difference where we halted, so we pitched our little tent on the bank of a stream intersecting a valley to the north. Extending in an easterly direction along the valley rose a series of mountains shaped like pyramids, covered with snow and all of almost equal height. To the south were high peaks with great quantities of snow upon them. The valley in which we camped was at an elevation of 17,450 feet. The cold was intense.



At night the rain came down in bucketfuls, and our tente d'abri gave us but little shelter. We were lying in water. All the trenches in the world could not have kept the water from streaming into our tent. In fact, it is no exaggeration to say that the whole valley was a sheet of water varying from one to several inches deep. Of course, we suffered intensely from cold, the thermometer dropping to 26 deg. at 8 P.M., when a south-east wind began to blow furiously. Rain fell, mixed with sleet, for a time, and was followed by a heavy snow-storm. We lay crouched up on the top of our baggage, so as not to lie on the frozen water. When we woke in the morning our tent had half collapsed, owing to the weight of snow upon it. During the day the temperature went up and rain fell afresh, so that when we resumed our marching we sank in a mixture of mud, snow, and water several inches deep. We had to cross three rivers and to skirt five lakes of various sizes.

Seven miles of this dreary marching saw us encamped (17,380 feet) at the foot of a conical hill 17,500 feet high, where an almost identical repetition of the previous night's experience took place. The thermometer was down at 32 deg., but fortunately the wind subsided at eight o'clock in the evening. As luck would have it, the sun came out the following day, and we were able to spread out all our things to dry. We had yet another novel experience.

Our two yaks had disappeared. I climbed up to the summit of the hill above camp, and with my telescope scoured the plain. The two animals were some distance off, being led away by ten or twelve men on horseback, who drove in front of them a flock of about five hundred sheep. By their clothing I recognized the strangers to be robbers. Naturally I started at once to recover my property, leaving Chanden Sing and Mansing in charge of our camp. I caught them up as they were marching slowly, though, when they perceived me, they hastened on, trying to get away. I shouted three times to them to stop, but they paid no heed to my words. I unslung my rifle, and would have fired at them had the threat alone not been sufficient to make them reflect. They halted. When I got near enough I claimed my two yaks back. They refused to give them up. They said they were twelve men, and were not afraid of one. Dismounted from their ponies, they seemed ready to attack me.

As I saw them take out flint and steel in order to light the fusees of their matchlocks, I thought I might as well have my innings first. Before they could guess my intention, I applied a violent blow with the muzzle of my rifle on the stomach of the man nearest to me. He collapsed, while I administered another blow in the right temple of another man who held his matchlock between his legs, and was on the point of striking his flint and steel in order to set the tinder on fire. He, too, staggered and fell clumsily.

"Chakzal, chakzal! Chakzal wortzie!" (We salute you, we salute you! Please listen!) exclaimed a third brigand, with an expression of dismay, and holding up his thumbs with his fist closed in sign of surrender.

"Chakzal!" (I salute you!) I replied, inserting a cartridge into the Mannlicher rifle.

"Middu, middu!" (No, no!) they entreated, promptly laying down their weapons.

I purchased from these men about thirty pounds of tsamba and eight pounds of butter. I got one of them to carry the stuff to my camp, while I, without further trouble, recovered my yaks and drove them back to where Chanden Sing and Mansing were busy lighting a fire to make some tea.

Toward noon, when our things had got almost dry in the warm sun, the sky became clouded, and again it began to rain heavily. I was rather doubtful as to whether I should go over a pass some miles off to the east, or should follow the course of the river and skirt the foot of the mountains. We saw a large number of Tibetans travelling in the opposite direction to ours. They all seemed terrified when we approached them. We obtained from them a few more pounds of food, but they refused to sell us any sheep, of which they had thousands. I decided to attempt the first-mentioned route. Making our way first over a continuation of the flat plateau, then over undulating ground, we came to two lakelets at the foot of the pass before us. The ascent was comparatively easy, over snow. We followed the river, which descended from the pass. About half-way up, on looking back, we saw eight soldiers galloping toward us. We waited for them. As soon as they came up to us they went through the usual servile salutations, depositing their weapons on the ground to show that they had no intention of fighting. A long, amiable conversation followed, the Tibetans professing their friendship for us and their willingness to help us to get on in any way they could. This was rather too good to be true. I suspected treachery, all the more so when they pressed and entreated us to go back to their tents, where they wished to entertain us as their highly honored guests. They would shower upon us all the luxuries that human mind could conceive. These luxuries were found to consist of presents of chura, cheese, butter, yak milk, and tsamba. They said they would sell us ponies if we required them. The description was too glowing. Taking all things into consideration, and allowing for the inaccuracy of speech of Tibetans in general, I thanked them from the bottom of my heart, and answered that I preferred to continue my journey and bear my present sufferings.

They perceived that I was not easy to catch. If anything, they respected me for it. In fact, they could not conceal their amazement at my having got so far into their country with only two men. After giving my visitors some little presents, we parted in a friendly manner.

We climbed up to the pass (18,480 feet). Before us, on the other side, some two thousand feet lower, was a large stretch of flat land. I could see a lake, which I took to be the Gunkyo. To make certain of it, I left my men and yaks on the pass and went to reconnoitre from a peak 19,000 feet high north-east of us. There was much snow. The ascent was difficult and tedious. When I got to the top another high peak barred the view in front of me, so, descending first and then ascending again, I climbed this second summit, finally reaching an elevation of 20,000 feet, and obtaining a good bird's-eye view of the country all round. There was a long snowy range to the north, and directly under it what I imagined to be a stretch of water, judging from the mist and clouds forming directly above it and from the grass on the lower slopes of the mountains.

A hill range stood in my way, just high enough to conceal the lake behind it. I rejoined my men. Sinking in deep, soft snow, we continued our march down the other side of the pass. We pitched our tent at a place about five hundred feet higher than the plain below us, where the mountain sides were close together and formed a gorge. Notwithstanding that I was now quite accustomed to great elevations, the ascent to 20,000 feet had caused a certain exhaustion, and I should have been glad of a good night's rest.

Mansing and Chanden Sing, having eaten some food, slept soundly, but I felt depressed. I had a peculiar sense of unrest and a presentiment that some misfortune would come to us during the night.

We were all three under our little tent when I fancied there was some one outside. I did not know why the thought entered my head, for I heard no noise, but all the same I felt I must see for myself and satisfy my curiosity. I peeped out of the tent with my rifle in hand, and saw a number of black figures cautiously crawling toward us. In a moment I was outside on my bare feet, running toward them and shouting at the top of my voice, "Pila tedan tedang!" (Look out, look out!) which caused a stampede among our ghost-like visitors. There were, apparently, many of them hidden behind rocks, for when the panic seized them the number of runaways was double or even treble that of the phantoms I had at first seen approaching. At one moment there seemed to be black ghosts springing out from everywhere, only, more solid than ghosts, they made a loud noise with their heavy boots as they ran in confusion down the steep incline and through the gorge. They turned sharply round the hill at the bottom and disappeared.

When I crawled inside the tent again Chanden Sing and Mansing, wrapped head and all in their blankets, were still snoring!

Naturally I passed a sleepless night after that, fearing the unwelcome visitors might return. We speculated as to how the Tibetans had found us, and we could not help surmising that our friends of the previous afternoon must have put them on our track. However, such was the inconceivable cowardice shown on every occasion by the Tibetans, that we got to attach no importance to these incidents. Indeed, the natives did not inspire us with fear. Their visits had even ceased to excite or interest us.

We went on as usual, descending to the plain. When we had got half-way across it I scoured the hills all round with my telescope to see if I could discern traces of our pursuers.

"There they are!" cried Chanden Sing, who had the most wonderful eyesight of any man I have known. He pointed at the summit of a hill where, among the rocks, several heads could be seen peeping. We went on without taking notice of them. Then they came out of their hiding-place, and we saw them descending the hill in a long line, leading their ponies. On reaching the plain they mounted their steeds and came full gallop our way. They were quite a picturesque sight in their dark-red coats, or brown and yellow skin robes and their vari-colored caps. Some wore bright-red coats with gold braiding, and Chinese caps. These were officers. The soldiers' matchlocks, to the props of which red or white flags were attached, gave an additional touch of color to the otherwise dreary scenery of barren hills and snow. The tinkling of the horse-bells enlivened the monotony of these silent, inhospitable regions. The Tibetans dismounted some three hundred yards from us. One old man, throwing aside his matchlock and sword, walked unsteadily toward us. We received him kindly. He afforded us great amusement, for he was a strange character.

"I am only a messenger," he hastened to state, "and therefore do not pour your anger upon me if I speak to you. I only convey the words of my officers, who do not dare to come for fear of being injured. News has been received at Lhassa, from whence we have come, that a Plenki (an Englishman) with many men is in Tibet, and can be found nowhere. We have been sent to capture him. Are you one of his advance-guard?"

"No," I replied, dryly. "I suppose that you have taken several months to come from Lhassa," I added, pretending ignorance.

"Oh no! Our ponies are good," he answered, "and we have come quickly."

"Chik, ni, sum, shi, nga, do, diu, ghieh, gu, chu, chuck chick, chuck ni," the Tibetan counted up to twelve, frowning and keeping his head inclined to the right, as if to collect his thoughts, at the same time holding up his hand, with the thumb folded against the palm, and turning down a finger as he called each number. The thumbs are never used in counting. "Lum chuck ni niman" (Twelve days), said he, "have we been on the road. We have orders not to return till we have captured the Plenki. And you," asked he, inquisitively—"how long have you taken to come from Ladak?"

He said he could see by my face that I was a native of Kashmere. I was probably so burnt and dirty that it was hard to distinguish me from a native. The old man cross-examined me to find out whether I was a native surveyor sent by the Indian Government to survey the country, and asked me why I had discarded my native clothes for Plenki (European) ones. He over and over again inquired whether I was not one of the Plenki's party.

"Keran ga naddo ung?" (Where are you going?) he queried.

"Nhgarang ne koroun Lama jehlhuong" (I am a pilgrim, going to visit monasteries).

"Keran mi japodu" (You are a good man).

He offered to show me the way to the Gunkyo Lake, and was so pressing that I accepted. When I saw the two hundred soldiers mount and follow us, I remonstrated with him, saying that if we were to be friends we did not need an army to escort us.

"If you are our friend, you can come alone, and we will not injure you," I gave him to understand. "But if you are our enemy, we will fight you and your army here at once, and we will save you the trouble of coming any farther."

The Tibetan, confused and hesitating, went to confabulate with his men, and returned some time after with eight of them, while the bulk of his force galloped away in the opposite direction.

We went across the plain until we came to a hill range, which we crossed over a pass 17,450 feet high. Then, altering our course, we descended and ascended several hills, and at last found ourselves in the sheltered grassy valley of the large Gunkyo Lake, extending from south-east to north-west. With a temperature of 68 deg. Fahrenheit the water in the hypsometrical apparatus boiled at 183 deg. 3-1/2' at 8.30 in the evening. The lake was of extraordinary beauty, with the high snowy Gangri mountains rising almost sheer from its waters. On the southern side lofty hills formed a background wild and picturesque, but barren and desolate beyond words. At the other end of the lake, to the north-west, were lower mountains skirting the water.

We encamped at 16,455 feet. The Tibetan soldiers pitched their tent some fifty yards away.

During the evening the Tibetans came to my camp and made themselves useful. They helped us to get fuel, and brewed tea for me in Tibetan fashion. They professed to hate the Lamas, the rulers of the country, to whom they took special pleasure in applying names hardly repeatable in these pages. According to them, the Lamas took all the money that came into the country, and no one else was allowed to have any. They were unscrupulous, cruel, and unjust. Every man in Tibet, they said, was a soldier in case of necessity, and every one a servant of the Lamas. The soldiers of the regular army received a quantity of tsamba, bricks of tea and butter, but no money. Usually they were provided with ponies to ride. When travelling on duty they had a right to obtain relays of animals at post-stations and villages, and they were also entitled to claim supplies of food, saddles, or anything else they required, to carry them as far as the next encampment. The weapons (sword and matchlock) generally belonged to the men themselves, but occasionally, in the larger towns, such as Lhassa and Sigatz, the Lamas provided them. Gunpowder and bullets were supplied by the authorities. The weapons were manufactured mostly in Lhassa and Sigatz. Although the Tibetans boasted of great accuracy in shooting with their matchlocks, which had wooden rests in order to allow the marksman to take a steady aim, I never saw even the champion shots of the country hit the mark. For sporting purposes and for economy's sake, the Tibetan soldiers hardly ever used lead bullets or shot, but preferred to fill the barrels of their matchlocks with pebbles. Gunpowder was so scarce that they seldom practised firing at a target.

At sunrise the view of Gunkyo was magnificent, with the snow-covered mountains tinted gold and red, and reflected in their smallest detail in the still waters of the lake.

We loaded our yaks, the Tibetans giving us a helping hand, and started toward the Maium Pass, following a river which throws itself into the Gunkyo Lake.

The valley was narrow, and with many sharp turns. Although the elevation was great, there was abundance of grass. The green was quite refreshing to the eyes, tired as we were of snow and reddish barren mountains and desert-like stretches of land. We came to a basin where, on the opposite bank of the stream, was a large Tibetan camping-ground with a high wall of stones. Behind it I could see smoke rising, which made me suspect that there were people concealed.

Our Tibetan friends asked what were our intentions, and begged me to stop to talk and drink tea. I said I had had quite enough of both, and would proceed.

"If you go on we will kill you!" shouted one soldier, getting into a temper, and taking advantage of our politeness toward him and his companions.

"Nga samgi ganta indah" (If you please), I answered, with studied courtesy.

"If you go another step we will cut off your head, or you will have to cut off ours!" cried two or three others, stretching their bare necks toward me.

"Taptih middu" (I have not got a small knife), I replied, quite seriously, and with assumed disappointment, twirling my hand in the air in Tibetan fashion.

The Tibetans did not know what to make of me. When I moved toward the pass, on which hundreds of flying-prayers flapped in the wind, I politely bade them good-bye with tongue out, and waving both my hands, palms upward, in front of my forehead in the most approved Tibetan style. The soldiers took off their caps and humbly saluted us by going down on their knees and putting their heads close to the ground.

We crossed the plain, and slowly wended our way up the pass. Near the top we came to a track, the highway from Ladak to Lhassa via Gartok, along the northern side of the Rakastal, Mansarowar, and Gunkyo lakes. On the pass itself were planted several poles connected by ropes, from which flying-prayers waved gayly in the breeze. Obos, or mounds of stones, had been erected. The slabs used in the construction of these obos were mostly white, and bore in many instances the inscription "Omne mani padme hun." Yak, goat, and sheep skulls were laid by the side of the obos, the above four words being engraved on the bone, and stained red with the blood of the animals killed.

Sacrifices are offered by Tibetans when crossing a high pass, especially if there is a Lama close at hand to commemorate the event. The meat of the animal killed is eaten by the people present. If the party is a large one, dancing and singing follow the feast. Obos are found all over the country, generally on passes or summits of hills. No Tibetan ever goes by one of these obos without depositing on it a white stone.



CHAPTER XVI

FIRST WHITE MAN IN THE SACRED PROVINCE

The Maium Pass (17,500 feet), as far as which no white man had ever penetrated, is a great landmark in Tibet. Not only does one of the sources of the great Tsangpu, or Brahmaputra River, rise on its south-east slopes, but it also separates the immense provinces of Nari-Khorsum (extending west of the Maium Pass and comprising the mountainous and lake region as far as Ladak) from the Yutzang, the central province of Tibet, stretching east of the pass along the valley of the Brahmaputra and having Lhassa for its capital. The word yu in Tibetan means "middle." It is applied to this province because it occupies the centre of Tibet. To the north of the Maium lies the Doktol province.

I had taken a reconnoitring trip to another pass to the north-east of us, and had just returned to my men on the Maium Pass, when several of the Tibetan soldiers we had left behind rode up toward us. We waited for them. Their leader, pointing at the valley beyond the pass, cried: "That yonder is the Lhassa territory, and we forbid you to enter it!"

I took no notice of his protest, and driving before me the two yaks, I stepped into the most sacred of all the sacred provinces—"the ground of God," as they call it.

We descended quickly on the eastern side of the pass, while the soldiers, aghast, remained watching us. They were a picturesque sight as they stood among the obos against the sky-line, the sunlight shining on their jewelled swords and the gay red flags of their matchlocks. Above their heads strings of flying-prayers waved in the wind. Having watched us for a little while, they disappeared.

A little rivulet, hardly six inches wide, descended among stones in the centre of the valley we were following, and was soon swollen by other rivulets from melting snows of the mountains on either side. This was one source[8] of the great Brahmaputra, one of the largest rivers in the world. I must confess that I felt somewhat proud to be the first white man who had ever reached these sources, and there was a certain childish delight in standing over this sacred stream, which, of such immense width lower down, could here be spanned by a man standing with legs slightly apart. We drank of its waters at the spot where it had its birth, and then, following a marked track to the south-east, we continued our descent on a gentle incline along a grassy valley.

The change in the climate between the west and south-east sides of the Maium Pass was extraordinary. On the western side we had nothing but violent storms of hail, rain, and snow, the dampness in the air rendering the atmosphere cold even during the day. The soil was unusually marshy, and little fuel or grass could be found. The moment the pass was crossed we were in a mild, pleasant climate, with a lovely deep-blue sky over us. We found plenty of grass for our yaks and low shrubs for our fires. After all our sufferings and privations, we felt that we had indeed entered the land of God. I expected great trouble sooner or later, but I was not sorry I had disobeyed the soldiers' orders and had marched straight into the most forbidden province of the forbidden land.

There is always satisfaction in doing what is forbidden.

The Brahmaputra received three small snow-fed tributaries descending from the steep mountains on either side of us. Where the main stream turned sharply south, a fourth and important tributary, carrying a large volume of water, came down through a gorge from the north-north-east.

We encamped near the junction of these rivers, on the right bank of the main stream, at an elevation of 16,620 feet. From the Maium Pass a continuation of the Gangri chain of mountains stretched first in a south-easterly direction, then due east, in a line almost parallel to the higher southern range of the Himahlyas. Between these two ranges was an extensive plain intersected by the Brahmaputra. On the southern side of the river were minor hill ranges between the river course and the big range of majestic snowy peaks. Although no peaks of considerable elevation were to be found along the range north of the Brahmaputra, yet it was of geographical importance, as its southern slopes formed the northern watershed of the holy river as far as Lhassa.

The valley enclosed between these two parallel ranges was the most thickly populated part of Tibet. Grass was abundant, and fuel easily obtainable. Thousands of yaks, sheep, and goats could be seen grazing near the many Tibetan camps along the Brahmaputra and its principal tributaries. The trade route of caravans from Ladak to Lhassa followed this valley. As I had come to Tibet to see and study the Tibetans, I thought that, although I might run greater risks, I could in no part of the country accomplish my object better than by going along this thickly populated track.

We slept little. We expected the soldiers to attack us during the night to try and stop our progress, but all was quiet and nothing happened. Our yaks got loose, and we had difficulty in recovering them in the morning. They had swum across the stream, and had gone about a mile on the other side.

The night had been very cold, the thermometer dropping as low as 32-1/2 deg. We did not pitch our little tent, as we wanted to be ready in case of attack. We were tired and cold after the long march of the previous day. There was a south-westerly breeze blowing. It was hard work to have to cross the river, chase the yaks and bring them back to camp; then, exhausted as we were, to get the loads on them.

We followed the stream on the right bank. It wound in and out between barren hills, afterward flowing through a grassy valley three-quarters of a mile wide and a mile and a half long. It then went through a narrow passage and farther through an undulating grassy valley two miles wide. We were caught in a terrific thunder-storm, with hail and rain. This was an annoying experience. We were now before a large tributary of the Brahmaputra. The stream was so swollen, rapid, and deep that I was much puzzled as to how I could take my men across. They could not swim, and the water was so cold that a plunge in it would give a severe shock. There was no time to be lost. The river was visibly rising, and as the storm was getting worse, difficulties would increase every moment. We took off our clothes and fastened them, with our rifles, etc., on the pack-saddles of the yaks, which we sent into the water. These animals were good swimmers. The current carried them more than a hundred yards down-stream, but to our satisfaction they scrambled out of the water on to the opposite bank. Notwithstanding the faith that Chanden Sing and Mansing had in my swimming, they really thought their last hour had come when I took each by the hand and led them into the stream. We had hardly gone twelve yards, with water up to our necks, when the inevitable took place. We were all three swept away. Chanden Sing and Mansing, in their panic, clung tight to my arms and dragged me under water. I swam my hardest with my legs. We came to the surface several times and then sank again, owing to the dead weight of my helpless companions. At last, after a desperate struggle, the current washed us on the opposite bank, where we hastily scrambled out of the treacherous river. We were some two hundred yards down-stream from the spot at which we had entered the river, and such was the quantity of muddy water we had swallowed that we all three became sick. This left us much exhausted. As the storm showed no signs of abating, we encamped, at an elevation of 16,320 feet, there and then on the left bank of the stream. Though we sadly needed warm food, there was no possibility of lighting a fire in such torrential rain. A piece of chocolate was all I ate that night. My men preferred to eat nothing rather than break their caste by eating food prepared by European hands.

We were asleep under our little tent, the hour being about eleven, when there was a noise outside as of voices and people stumbling against stones. I was out in a moment with my rifle, and shouted the usual "Palado!" (Go away!) I could see nothing, owing to the darkness, but several stones flung from slings whizzed past me. One of these hit the tent. A dog barked furiously. I fired a shot, which had the good effect of producing a hasty retreat of our enemies. The dog remained barking all night. In the morning, when I gave him food and caressed him in Tibetan fashion, with the usual words of endearment, "Chochu, chochu," he rubbed himself against my legs as if he had known me all his life, and eventually lay down by the side of Mansing, to whom he took a particular fancy. From that day the dog never left our camp, and followed us everywhere until harder times came upon us.

The river was turning too much toward the south. I decided to abandon it and strike across country, especially as there were faint signs of a track leading over a pass to the east-south-east of our camp. I followed this track. Along it I detected marks of hundreds of ponies' hoofs, now almost entirely washed away. This was evidently the way taken by the soldiers we had met on the other side of the Maium Pass.

Having risen over the pass, 17,750 feet high, we saw before us an extensive valley with barren hills scattered upon it. To the south we observed a large plain some ten miles wide, with snowy peaks rising on the farther side. In front was a hill and a mani wall. This latter discovery made me feel quite confident that I was on the highroad to Lhassa. About eight miles off to the north-north-west were high snowy peaks, and as we went farther we discovered a lofty mountain range, with still higher peaks, three miles behind it. We had travelled half-way across the waterless plain when we noticed a number of soldiers' heads and matchlocks popping in and out from behind a distant hill. After a while they came out in numbers to observe our movements, then retired again behind the hill. We proceeded. When we were still half a mile from them they abandoned their hiding-place and galloped away before us, raising clouds of dust. From a hill 16,200 feet high, over which the track crossed, we perceived a group of very high snowy peaks about eight miles distant. Between them and us stood a range of hills cut by a valley, along which flowed a river carrying a large volume of water. This we followed, and crossed it at a suitable fording-place where the stream was twenty-five yards across. The water reached up to our waists. We found here another mani wall with large inscriptions on stones. As the wind was high and cutting, we used the wall as a shelter for the night. We could see in the distance the snowy Himahlyan chain. Lower hill ranges were not more than three miles from camp. The river we had just crossed flowed into the Brahmaputra. We were at an elevation of 15,700 feet. We saw plainly at sunset a number of black tents before us. We counted about sixty, and we calculated them to be two miles distant. Near them were hundreds of black yaks.

At sunrise the next morning, much to our surprise, the tents and yaks had vanished; nor, on marching in the direction where we had seen them the previous night, were we able to find traces of them. It must have been an effect of mirage. Some fourteen miles away, in a grassy plain at the foot of the range extending from north-west to south-east, and with lofty snowy peaks in a direction of 72 deg. (bearings magnetic), we came upon a very large Tibetan encampment of over eighty black tents. We were then at an elevation of 15,650 feet. The tents were pitched on the banks of another tributary of the Brahmaputra, which, after describing a wide curve in the plain, passed west of the encampment. To the north-west, north, and north-east stood the chain of mountains which I had observed all along. The elevation of its peaks became gradually lower and lower, so much so that the name of "hill range" would be more appropriate to it than that of "mountain chain," that is to say, if the elevation of the plateau on which it stood were not taken into account. Behind it, however, towered loftier peaks with snowy caps.

We needed food, and so made boldly for the encampment. Our approach caused a commotion. Yaks and sheep were hastily driven away before us, while men and women rushed in and out of their tents, apparently in a state of great excitement. Eight or ten men reluctantly came forward, and entreated us to go inside a large tent. They said they wished to speak to us, and offered us tea. I would not accept their invitation, distrusting them, but went on across the encampment, halting some three hundred yards beyond. Chanden Sing and I proceeded afterward on a round of calls at all the tents, trying to purchase food, and also to show that, if we had declined to enter a particular tent, it was not on account of fear, but because we did not want to be caught in a trap. Our visit to the different golingchos or gurr (tents) was interesting enough. The tents themselves were cleverly constructed, and admirably adapted to the country in which they were used. The tents, black in color, were woven of yaks' hair, the natural greasiness of which made the cloth quite waterproof. They consisted of two separate pieces of thick material, supported by two poles at each end. There was an oblong aperture above in the upper part of the tent, through which the smoke escaped. The base of the larger tents was six-sided. The roof, at a height of six or seven feet above the ground, was kept tightly stretched by means of long ropes passing over high forked poles and the ends of which were pegged to the ground. Many wooden and iron pegs were required to keep the bottom of the tent close to the ground all round, so as to protect its inmates from the cutting winds of the great plateau. Outside each tent stood four long poles with white flying-prayers—one for each point of the compass. Around the interior of the larger tents there was a wall from two to three feet high for protection against the wind, rain, and snow. These walls were constructed of dried dung, which, as time went on, was used as fuel. There were two apertures, one at either end of the tent. The one facing the wind was always kept closed by means of loops and wooden bolts.

The Tibetan is a born nomad, and shifts his dwelling with the seasons, wherever he can find grazing for his yaks and sheep. He knows how to make himself comfortable. For instance, in the centre of his tent he makes himself a goling, or fireplace of mud and stone, some three feet high, four or five feet long by one and a half wide, with two, three, or more side ventilators and draught-holes. By this ingenious contrivance he manages to increase the combustion of the dried dung, the most trying fuel from which to get a flame. On the top of this stove a suitable place is made to fit the several raksangs (large brass pots and bowls), in which the brick tea, duly pounded first in a stone or wooden mortar, is boiled and stirred with a long brass spoon. A portable iron stand is generally to be seen somewhere in the tent, upon which the hot vessels are placed when they are removed from the fire. Close to these is the toxzum or dongbo, a cylindrical wooden churn, used for mixing the tea with butter and salt.

The wooden cups or bowls used by the Tibetans are called pu-ku, fruh, or cariel. In them tsamba is eaten after tea has been poured on it, and the mixture worked into a paste by more or less dirty fingers. Lumps of butter are mixed with this paste, and even bits of chura (cheese). The richer people (officials) indulge in flour and rice, which they import from India and China, and in kassur, or dried fruit (dates and apricots) of inferior quality. The rice is boiled into a kind of soup called the tupka, a luxury only indulged in on grand occasions, when such other cherished delicacies as gimakara (sugar) and shelkara (lump white sugar) are also eaten. The Tibetans are fond of meat, but few can afford to eat it. Wild game, yak, and sheep are considered excellent food. The meat and bones are boiled in a cauldron with lavish quantities of salt and pepper.

The inhabitants of this encampment were polite and talkative, but I was suspicious of their friendliness. They refused to sell us food, on the plea that they had none even for themselves.

Women and men formed a ring round us. I was particularly struck, not only in this encampment but in all others, by the small number of women to be seen in Tibet. This is not because they are kept in seclusion. On the contrary, the ladies of the Forbidden Land seem to have it all their own way. They are actually in a minority, the proportion being, at a rough guess, backed by the wise words of a friendly Lama, from fifteen to twenty males to each female in the population. All the same, the fair sex in Tibet manages to rule the male majority, playing constantly into the hands of the Lamas.

The Tibetan female, whether she be a lady, a shepherdess, or a brigandess, cannot be said to be prepossessing. In fact, it was not my luck to see a single good-looking woman in the country, although I naturally saw women who were less ugly than others. With the accumulated filth that from birth is undisturbed by soap, scrubbing, or bathing; with nose, cheeks, and forehead smeared with black ointment to prevent the skin cracking in the wind; and with the unpleasant odor that emanates from never-changed clothes, the Tibetan woman is, at her best, repulsive to a European. After one has overcome one's first disgust, she yet has, at a distance, a certain charm of her own. She walks well, for she is accustomed to carry heavy weights on her head. Her skull would be well-set upon her shoulders were it not that the neck is too short and thick to be graceful. Her body and limbs possess great muscular strength, and are well developed, but generally lack firmness. She is heavily built, and inclined to stoutness.

The Tibetan woman is superior to the Tibetan man. She possesses a better heart, more pluck, and a finer character than he. Time after time, when the men, timid beyond all conception, ran away at our approach, the women remained in charge of the tents, and, although by no means cool or collected, they rarely failed to meet us without some show of dignity.

In the Tibetan encampment, when all were friendly, the women seemed less shy than the men, and conversed freely and incessantly. They even prevailed upon their masters to sell us a little tsamba and butter.

When a Tibetan young man wishes to marry, he goes, accompanied by his father and mother, to the tent of the lady of his heart. There he is received by her relations, who have been previously notified of the intended call, and are found seated on rugs and mats awaiting the arrival of their guests.



After the usual courtesies and salutations, the young man's father asks, on behalf of his son, for the young lady's hand. If the answer is favorable, the suitor places a square lump of yak butter on his betrothed's forehead. She does the same for him, and the marriage ceremony is over, the buttered couple being man and wife.

Where there is a temple close by, katas, food, and money are laid before the images of Buddha and saints, and the parties walk round the inside of the temple. Where there is no temple, the husband and wife make the circuit of the nearest hill, or, in default of a hill, of a tent, always moving from left to right. This ceremony is repeated with prayers and sacrifices every day for a fortnight, during which time libations of wine and general feasting continue. After that the husband conveys his better half to his own tent.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 8: I visited the other source of the Brahmaputra River on the return journey.]



CHAPTER XVII

DISASTER AT THE RIVER

Coming out of our tent in the morning, we noticed a commotion among the Tibetans. A number of mounted men with matchlocks had arrived. Others similarly armed joined them. They seemed excited. I kept my eye on them while I was cooking my food. There were some two hundred men in all, picturesquely garbed. They were good horsemen, and looked well as they rode in a line toward us. A little way off they stopped and dismounted. The leaders came forward, one stalwart fellow in a handsome sheepskin coat marching ahead of the rest. His attitude was arrogant. Dispensing with the usual salutations, he approached quite close, shaking his fist at me.

"Kiu mahla lokhna nga rah luck tiba tangan" (I will give you a goat or a sheep if you will go back), he said.

"Kiu donna nga di tangon!" (And I give you this to make you go back!) was my quick answer, while I unexpectedly administered him one straight from the shoulder that sent him sprawling on the ground.

The army, which, with its usual prudence, was watching events from a respectful distance, beat a hasty retreat. The officer scrambled away, screaming. The Tibetans had so far behaved with such contemptible cowardice that we could hardly congratulate ourselves on such easy successes. We began to feel that really we had no enemy at all before us. We became even careless. We ate our food, and gave this affair but little thought.

The Tibetans did not trouble us again that day. Those who had not ridden off retired timidly inside their black tents. Not a soul was to be seen about in the encampment. I registered my daily observations, made a sketch of one of the black tents, and wrote up my diary. Then we continued our journey.

Our progress was now comparatively easy, along a broad grassy plain. We proceeded in a south-easterly direction, observing a high snowy peak at 20 deg. (b.m.), and a low pass in the mountain range to our north-east. A high range stood ahead of us in the far distance. At the foot of a lonely hill we found an important mani wall of great length, with numberless inscriptions of all ages and sizes on stones, pieces of bone, skulls, and horns. Farther on, to the south, there were three small hillocks and two larger ones. The soldiers we had routed at the encampment had proceeded in the direction we were now following. We were, in fact, treading all along on the footmarks of their ponies.

We had to cross a river and a number of rivulets. So troublesome was it each time to take off our shoes and clothes in order to wade through, that we bundled up our clothes on the yaks, and travelled along for the rest of the afternoon barefooted and with nothing on but a loincloth, in the style adopted by fakirs.[9]

The sun was extremely hot, the ground marshy, the air thick with huge and troublesome mosquitoes. We were quickly covered from head to foot with bites, which caused intense irritation. Halting on the right bank of a large stream at 15,600 feet, we named this spot "Mosquito Camp." At sunset swarms of mosquitoes made us very miserable, but fortunately the moment the sun disappeared the thermometer fell to 33 deg., the mosquitoes vanished, and we had a peaceful night.

In the evening we saw a number of horsemen riding full speed on a course about one mile south of ours. No doubt they were sent to keep the authorities ahead informed of our movements.

The next day the water of the stream was so clear that we could not resist the temptation of having a good cleaning up, washing first our clothes and spreading them to dry in the sun, then cleansing our faces and bodies thoroughly with soap, a luxury unknown to us for ever so long.

While—for lack of towels—I was drying myself in the sun, I admired the scenery around us. I registered at 211 deg. (b.m.) a very high snowy peak, and a lower one at 213 deg. 30' forming part of a beautiful mountain chain. There were mountains on every side of the plain. Another very high peak, of which I had taken bearings on a previous occasion, was at 20 deg. (b.m.). A break occurred in the hill range to our north-east, showing a narrow valley, beyond which were high snowy mountains. We made a long march along the grassy plain, and encamped on the bank of the Brahmaputra, there a wide, deep, and rapid stream. We saw hundreds of kiang and antelopes. Shortly before sunset I took a walk toward the hills to try and bring back fresh meat to camp. I stalked a herd of antelopes. When some five miles from camp I was benighted, and on my return in the darkness had the greatest difficulty in finding my men. They had been unable to light a fire, and as they had both gone fast asleep, I received no answer to my calls. We had selected a sheltered hollow in the ground for our camp, and as there were hundreds of similar depressions everywhere round it, and no landmarks to guide me, it was not easy to identify the exact place.

Fortunately, at last, after I had shouted for some considerable time, Chanden Sing heard me. By the sound of his voice, I found my way back. In the morning we noticed a large encampment about a mile off, on the opposite bank of the Brahmaputra. The stream was too rapid for us to cross, or we might have gone over to try and obtain provisions from the natives. Moreover, on further examination, we saw black tents in every direction on our side of the water, and therefore there was no reason to go to the extra trouble and danger of crossing the stream.

Much to our delight, we succeeded in purchasing a goat from some passing Tibetans, who drove before them a flock of several thousand. We could not find sufficient dry fuel to make a fire, so we intrusted Mansing with the animal as far as our next camp, where we proposed to indulge in a feast.

The Brahmaputra had here several ramifications, mostly ending in lakelets, and rendering the plain a regular swamp. The larger arm of the river was wide and deep, and we preferred following it to crossing it, notwithstanding that we had to deviate somewhat from the course which otherwise I should have followed. For several miles we sank in mud and slush up to our knees, or waded through water. There were small patches of soft earth with tufts of grass which rose above the water, but they collapsed on our attempting to stand upon them.

The whole of the northern part of the plain was extremely marshy. Our yaks gave us no end of trouble. When they sank unexpectedly in soft mud-holes, they became alarmed, and, in their struggle to save themselves, once or twice shook off their pack-saddles and loads, which we had not been able to fasten properly for want of proper ropes. Chanden Sing and I managed to keep up with the restless animals. At last, on nearing the hills, the ground showed undulations, and was rather drier. We saw columns of smoke rising from near the foot of the range to the north of us. We went on another two miles, exhausted and dirty, our clothes, on which we had spent so much soap and time in washing, filthy again with splashes of mud.

"Where are Mansing and the goat?" I asked the Hindoo.

"He remained behind at the beginning of the swamp. He was too exhausted to drag along the goat you purchased."

I was much concerned, on scouring from a hillock the country all round with my telescope, to perceive no sign whatever of the poor fellow. I was angry with myself for not noticing his disappearance before. As there were many Tibetans about the spot where he had remained, I feared foul play on their part, and that he might have been overpowered. Again I imagined that, weak as he was, he might have been sucked down in one of the deeper mud-holes, without a chance of saving himself. I left Chanden Sing to look after the yaks, and turned back in search of him. As I hurried back mile after mile, struggling again half across the mud swamp, and yet saw no trace of the poor coolie, I was almost giving up my quest in despair, when my eye caught sight of something moving about half a mile farther on. It was the goat, all alone. I made for it with a sinking heart.

It was only on getting quite close that I perceived the poor coolie, quite insensible in a faint, lying flat and half sunk in the mud. Fortunately he had taken the precaution of tying the rope to which the goat was fastened tight round his arm. To it only was due my discovering Mansing's whereabouts, not to speak of the rescue of our precious acquisition. With some rubbing and shaking I brought the poor fellow back to life, and helped him along until we rejoined Chanden Sing. Not until the middle of the night did we reach Tarbar, a large Tibetan encampment at the foot of the hill range.

The alarm of our arrival, given first by scores of dogs barking at us, then by one of the natives who had ventured peeping out of his tent to find out the cause of the disturbance, created the usual panic in the place.

"Gigri duk! gigri duk! Jogpa, Jogpa!" (Danger! danger! Help, brigands, brigands!) cried the Tibetan, running frantically out of his tent. A few seconds later black figures could be seen everywhere, dashing in and out of their tents. It must be remembered that, according to the manners of Tibet, one should time one's arrival at an encampment so as to reach it before sundown, unless notice of one's approach is sent ahead. People who arrive unexpectedly in the middle of the night are never credited with good motives—nothing short of murder, robbery, or extortion. I tried to set the minds of the Tibetans at ease by telling them that I meant no harm, but such was their excitement and fright that I could get no one to listen to me.