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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wild horse."

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

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BEHIND OUR BULWARKS

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

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