Early in the afternoon a soldier entered the tent, and striking me on the shoulder with his heavy hand, shouted:

"Ohe!" (This is a Tibetan exclamation always used by the rougher classes when beginning a conversation. It corresponds to "Look here.")

"Ohe!" repeated he; "before the sun goes down you will be flogged, both your legs will be broken,[12] they will burn out your eyes, and then they will cut off your head!"

The man, who seemed quite in earnest, accompanied each sentence with an appropriate gesture to illustrate his words. I laughed at him and affected to treat the whole thing as a joke, partly because I thought this was the best way to frighten them, and partly because the programme thus laid before me seemed so extensive that I thought it could only be intended to intimidate me.

The words of the soldier cast a gloom over my friendly guard in the tent. When I tried to cheer them up, they answered bluntly that I would not laugh for very long. Something was certainly happening. The men rushed in and out of the tent and whispered among themselves. When I spoke to them they would answer no more, and on my insisting to receive an answer they made signs that their lips must from now be closed.

About half an hour later another person, in a great state of excitement, rushed into the tent and signalled to my guards to lead me out. This they did, after making my bonds tighter than ever, and placing extra ropes round my chest and arms. In this fashion I was marched off to the mud house and led into one of the rooms. A large number of soldiers and villagers assembled outside. After we had waited some time, Mansing, tightly bound, was brought into the same room. My pleasure at seeing my man again was so great that I paid no attention to the insults of the mob peeping through the door. After a while a Lama came in with a smiling face, and said he had good news to give me.

"We have ponies here," he said, "and we are going to take you back to the frontier, but the Pombo wishes to see you first to-day. Do not make a resistance. Let us exchange the ropes round your wrists for these iron handcuffs."

Here he produced a heavy pair of manacles which he had kept concealed under his coat.

"You will not wear them for more than a few moments, while we are leading you to his presence. Then you will be free. We swear to you by the Sun and Kunjuk-Sum that we will treat you kindly."

I promised not to resist, chiefly because I had no chance of doing so. For greater safety they tied my legs and placed a sliding knot round my neck; then I was carried out into the open, where a ring of soldiers with drawn swords stood round me. They made me lay flat on my face on the ground, and held me down firmly while they unwound the ropes from around my wrists. The iron fetters, joined by a heavy chain, were substituted for them. They took some time in fastening the clumsy padlock, after which, all being ready, they unbound my legs.

When I stood up again, and knowing that I could not possibly get my hands free, they began to load me with insults, not directed to me as an individual, but as a Plenki (an Englishman). They spat upon me and threw mud at me. The Lamas behaved worse than any of the others. The one who had sworn that I should in no way be ill-used if I submitted quietly to be handcuffed was the most prominent among my tormentors and the keenest in urging the crowd on to further brutality.

Suddenly the attention of the crowd was drawn to the approach of the Rupun with a number of soldiers and officers. He seemed depressed. His face was of a ghastly yellowish tint. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground. Speaking in a low tone of voice, he ordered that I should again be conveyed inside the mud house.

A few moments later he came in and closed the door after him, having first cleared the room of all the people who were in it. Tibetan structures of this kind have a square aperture in the ceiling by which they are ventilated and lighted.

The Rupun laid his forehead upon mine in sign of compassion, and then sadly shook his head.

"There is no more hope," he whispered; "your head will be cut off to-night. The Lamas are bad. My heart is aching. You are like my brother, and I am grieved...."

The good old man tried not to let me see his emotion, and made signs that he could stay no longer, lest he should be accused of being my friend.

The mob again entered the room. I was once more dragged out into the open by the Lamas and soldiers. Some discussion followed as to who should keep the key of my handcuffs, and eventually it was handed over to one of the officers, who mounted his pony and rode away at a great speed in the direction of Lhassa.

Just then I heard the voice of Chanden Sing calling to me in a weak, agonized tone:

"Hazur, hazur, hum murgiaega!" (Sir, sir, I am dying!) Turning my head in the direction from which these painful sounds came, I perceived my faithful servant with his hands bound behind his back, dragging himself on his stomach toward the door of one of the other rooms of the mud house. His poor face was hardly recognizable, it bore the traces of such awful suffering.

I could stand no more. Pushing my guards aside with my shoulders, I endeavored to get to the poor wretch, and had nearly reached him when soldiers sprang upon me, grappled me, and lifting me bodily off my feet, threw me on the back of a pony.

I now feared the worst. I tried to encourage my brave servant by shouting to him that I was being taken to Taklakot, and that he would be brought after me the following day. He had exhausted his last atom of strength in creeping to the door. He was roughly seized, and brutally hurled back into the room of the mud house, so that we could not exchange a word more. Mansing, the coolie, was placed, with his arms pinioned, on a bare-back pony.

The saddle of the pony I had been thrown upon is worthy of description. It was in reality the wooden frame of a very high-backed saddle, like a Mexican saddle. From the highest point of the back five or six sharp iron spikes stuck out horizontally. As I sat on this implement of torture, I was not actually sitting on the spikes, but the spikes caught me in the back just below the waist.

My guard having been augmented by twenty or thirty mounted men with muskets and swords, we set off at a furious pace. A horseman riding in front of me led my pony by means of a cord, as my hands were manacled behind my back. Thus we travelled across country for many miles.

Except for those awful spikes in the saddle, the ride would not have been so bad. The pony I rode was a spirited animal, and the country around was curious and interesting. We proceeded along a succession of yellow sand-hills, some of them as high as two or three hundred feet, others not more than twenty or thirty feet. The sand seemed to have been deposited more by wind than water, though it is also possible that the whole basin, not very high above the level of the huge stream, may at some time have been altogether under water. The whole space between the mountain range to the north of the Brahmaputra and the river itself was covered with these sand-mounds, except in certain places where the soil was extremely marshy. Here our ponies sank in deep, soft mud. We splashed across several rivulets and skirted a number of ponds. From the summit of a hill on which they led me, I could see that the hills were of much greater circumference and height near the river, becoming smaller and smaller as they approached the mountain range to the north. They increased in number and size the farther we went in an easterly direction.

The circumstances under which I was now travelling did not permit me to make accurate investigations as to where the sand came from. A mere glance at the country all round made me feel sure that the sand had been conveyed from the south. This could be plainly seen from depressions and wave-like undulations, showing that it had travelled (roughly) in a northerly direction. I was fairly convinced that the sand had been deposited there by the wind, which had carried it from the plains of India over the Himahlyan chain.

My guard scoured the country from the high point of vantage on which we had ascended. Away in the distance, to the east, we saw a large number of horsemen raising clouds of dust. Riding down the hill, our ponies sinking in soft sand, we set off in the direction of the new-comers, the ground at the bottom of the hill being somewhat harder.

We travelled mile after mile at an unpleasant pace, until we arrived at a spot where, drawn up in a line, was the cavalcade we had seen from the summit of the hill. It was a beautiful sight as we approached it, though the pain which I was undergoing rather detracted from the pleasure I should otherwise have taken in the picturesque scene. There were about a hundred red Lamas in the centre, with bannermen whose heads were covered by peculiar flat fluffy hats, and an equal number of soldiers and officers in their gray, red, and black tunics—some two hundred horsemen in all.

The Pombo, in his yellow coat and trousers and his queer pointed hat, sat on a magnificent pony in front of the crowd of Lamas and soldiers.

Curiously enough, when close to this new crowd, the horseman who led my pony let go the rope, and the pony was lashed cruelly and left to run wildly. The soldiers of my guard reined up and drew aside. The pony dashed off in the direction of the Pombo, and, as I passed close to him, a man whose name I learned afterward was Nerba (a private secretary of the Tokchim Tarjum) knelt down, and, taking aim with his matchlock resting on its prop, deliberately fired a shot at me.

Although Nerba was considered one of the champion shots of the country, and the distance from the muzzle of his matchlock to me was not more than four yards, the bullet missed me, whizzing past my left ear. Probably the speed at which my animal was proceeding saved me, as the marksman could not take a steady aim. My pony, startled at the sudden report of the matchlock at such close quarters, took fright, and began rearing and plunging. I managed to maintain my seat, though the spikes in the saddle were lacerating terribly the lower part of my spine.

Several horsemen now rode up and captured my pony. Preparations were made for another exciting number in the programme of my tortures. In a way these Lamas possessed a sporting nature, but I swore to myself that, no matter what they did to me, I would not give them the satisfaction of seeing that they were hurting me. Acting on this principle, I pretended not to feel the effect of the spikes tearing the flesh off my backbone. When they led me before the Pombo to show him how covered with blood I was, I expressed satisfaction at riding such an excellent pony. This seemed to puzzle him.

A cord of yak-hair, about forty or fifty yards long, was now produced. The swivel attached to one end was fastened to my handcuffs, and the other end was held by a horseman. We set off again on our wild career, this time followed not only by the guard, but by the Pombo and all his men. Once or twice I could not help turning round to look at them. The cavalcade was a weird and picturesque sight, the riders with their many-colored dresses, their matchlocks with red flags, their jewelled swords, their banners with long ribbons of all colors flying in the wind—all galloping furiously, shouting, yelling, and hissing, amid a deafening din of thousands of horse-bells.

In order to quicken our speed, a horseman rode by my side lashing my pony to make it go its hardest. Meanwhile the horseman who held the cord did his utmost to pull me off the saddle, no doubt in the hope of seeing me trampled to death by the cavalcade behind me. As I leaned my body forward so as to maintain my seat, and with my arms pulled violently backward by the rope, the flesh on my hands and knuckles was rubbed off down to the bone by the chain of the handcuffs. Every tug brought me into forcible contact with the spikes and inflicted deep wounds. The cord eventually and unexpectedly gave way. The soldier who was pulling at the other end was clumsily unhorsed, and I myself was all but thrown by the unexpected jerk. This amusing incident at first provoked mirth among my escort, a mirth which their superstitious minds immediately turned into an ill omen.

When my pony was stopped, as well as the runaway steed of the dismounted cavalier, I took advantage of their fears, and assured them once more that whatever harm they tried to do me would go against themselves. However, the cord was retied with sundry strong knots, and, after an interruption of a few minutes, we resumed our breakneck gallop, I being again sent in front.

Toward the end of our journey we had to go round the curve of a sand-hill, the track between this and a large pond at its foot being very narrow. At this point I saw in front of me a soldier posted in ambush, with his matchlock ready to fire. The pony sank deep in the sand, and could not travel fast, which, I suppose, was the reason why that spot had been selected. The man fired as I passed only a few paces from him; but, as luck would have it, this second attempt also left me untouched.

Getting clear of the soft sand, and finding harder ground, we resumed our headlong career. Several arrows were shot at me from behind. Some passed very near, but not one struck me. Thus, after an interminable ride full of incident and excitement, near sunset we arrived at our destination.

THE RIDE ON A SPIKED SADDLE

On the crown of a hill stood a fortress and large Lamasery. At its foot, in front of a large structure, the Pombo's gaudy tent had been pitched. The name of this place, as far as I could afterward ascertain, was Namj LaccÉ Galshio or Gyatsho.