At last one can finally leave all of Kashmir’s falseness and dirt. One can forget half-ruined Srinagar. One can forget the attack made on our caravan by armed bandits. The Moravian mission in Leh has some strange restrictions and informs us of its consent to rent us one of its houses on condition that I sign an agreement to do no “Religious, semi-religious, etc., propaganda.” No one could explain just what meaning the mysterious semi and etc. had. And who could pledge himself not to exceed the incomprehensible limit of semi and etc.? We were able to get along without the headquarters of the mission—in the Palace of the Ladaki King. Only in the mountains does one feel safe. Only in the desert passes ignorance does not reach one.

We learned how widespread are the legends about Issa. It is important only to know the substance of these legends. The sermons related in them, of unity, of the significance of woman and all the indications about Buddhism, are so remarkably timely for us. Lamas know the significance of these legends. And why do people resent and slander these legends? Every one knows how to slander the so-called “Apocrypha.” For slander does not need a high intelligence. But who can fail to recognize that many of the so-called “Apocrypha” are far more basically true than many official documents? The Kraledvorsky manuscript which was accepted by everyone happened to be a forgery—while many genuine documents do not enter into any one’s consciousness. It is enough to remember the so-called Evangel of the Ebionites. Such authorities as Origen, Jerome and Epiphany speak about the existence of this biography. Irenæus, in the second century, knows of it—and where is it now? It is better, instead of useless discussions, humanly to reflect on the facts and thoughts which are communicated in the legends of Issa, “the best of human sons.” Appreciate how close to contemporary consciousness is the substance of these legends and be astonished how widely all the East knows of them and how persistent is the repetition of them.

For a long time we loaded the yaks, horses, mules, donkeys, sheep, dogs—a complete biblical procession. The caravaneers are like a case of an ethnographical museum. We passed the pool where, according to tradition, Issa first taught. To the left remain the prehistoric tombs. Behind them, the place where Buddha, the ancient founder of the Order, went northward through Khotan. Farther on, ruins of structures and the garden which speaks so much to us. We passed by stony reliefs of Maitreya, which on the way, convey to distant travelers their parting word of hope for the future. The palace remained behind the rock, with the temple Dukar—the illumined, many-armed Mother of the World. The last sign from Leh was the farewell of the women of Ladak. They went out upon the road carrying the blessed milk of yaks. They sprinkled the milk on the foreheads of the horses and travelers in order to give them the power of yaks, so needed on the steep inclines and upon the slippery ribs of the glaciers. The women bade us farewell.

Up to Khardong, the ascent is easy. The hot sun set, and toward evening there sprang up a sharp, cold wind. We had to spread our camp on a naked Arctic plain, under the cutting wind. The Kashmiris very slyly would not show the Ladakis many of the things. And at twilight, by reason of the gale, there was an indescribable confusion.

And above us stood snow-covered Khardong! It rose unapproachably.

We ascended the pass on yaks at three o’clock in the morning. These heavy, woolly animals are truly irreplaceable because of their soft step and steadiness; but, of course, only when they are broken in. For a wild yak is entirely untamable. Once, the Tibetans provided unbroken yaks for a Chinese regiment and immediately three-quarters of the riders were thrown to the earth. Our ascent was not difficult. The view from Khardong is majestic but the entire northern part of Khardong is one steep, powerful glacier. The descent was tiresome and dangerous. We had to walk and creep!

We saw how one loaded yak tripped and was slipping precipitately down the smooth rib of the glacier; but at the very edge of the precipice, the yak, straining itself, clutched down with his short strong feet. Many animals and people begin to be attacked by hemorrhages and headaches along ascents higher than sixteen thousand feet; on our way even now frozen blood is seen. Already we pass the skeleton of a horse that had fallen. With us all is well. After the crossing they tell us of an entire caravan that was frozen on Khardong, a caravan of Baltis comprising about one hundred horses was found frozen. Some of the men were found frozen holding their hands to their mouths as though screaming. Even now, in the fall, the fingers and toes soon become numb. One has to rub them with snow. It is almost impossible to paint. One can imagine how it is here during the winter. But beautiful is this threatening glacier! Far below is a turquoise lake. They say it is very deep. The entire path is strewn with gigantic boulders. Looking back, it seems as though the pass would be impenetrable.

After the difficulties of the pass and glacier the road seems easy. After the piercing cold—heat and a vivid sun. The sands are hot; the mountains with their snowy rims, recede. Here are the beds of the streams. Sometimes a stream disappears into the stony masses and only the rumbling tumult indicates the flow of the invisible water. Briar roses and tamarisks are everywhere. And the natives in this valley of the Nubra River are friendly people. The river itself, in flood tide, can become a ponderous torrent. Now in the fall, its current is divided into many channels of unusually beautiful and intricate design. We go beyond the usual encampment.

We slept overnight in Territ, in a real Tibetan house. In our camp there are three parties: Buddhist, Moslem and Chinese. They are not without mutual suspicions of one another. They eat separately. Our old Lun-po happens to be the son of the Elder in Leh and is a big landowner. He has his estates and houses everywhere, in Leh, in Hemis and in Territ and in different places in Changthang. He told us how many monasteries were destroyed during the periods of past invasions. In one of his own houses here are such ruins, full of chips and statues and the remains of destroyed books. We are sorry that Lun-po came to us only during the last few days. He came, and to the question as to who he was, he proudly lifted his eyes and clearly pronounced “Bhoti,” meaning Buddhist. He also tells us his brother is the treasurer in Hemis and knows how many secreted objects there are not shown to visitors. Lun-po wants to remain with us and to go to different countries. He wants to learn Russian; he begs only one thing: “Do not cut off my braid!” And his braid is really a wonderful one—black and down to his knees. We calmed him. No one will make any attempts against this symbol of his national pride. Apparently he already knows that in China the order has been given to cut the queues and that in Tibet it is forbidden to show the tongue as a sign of devotion and gratitude. And Lun-po, in moments of pleasure, likes to show a broad and healthy tongue. He is a good companion for the heights and glaciers but hardly fits in a house. We are approaching his property and he begs us not to remain in the tents but to stay overnight in his house. With pride he shows us the gates (Chorten)—the walls of which are painted over with a vivid design. There are many fields and fruit trees. We sleep in a frescoed Tibetan room. A vivid cornice. There is a broad window, and a low broad door with a great ring for a lock. The sandy floor is covered with colored felt. In the designs of ornaments the swastika is often repeated. In the middle of the room is a heavy pillar and on a wide pilaster is an image of Chintamani, the Treasure of the World.

Every Tibetan estate is strangely reminiscent of the plan of the feudal palaces. The entire building is surrounded by a wall higher than the height of a man. The entrance is through thick gates. Behind the wall is a square of outer yard and here horses are neighing and fires are burning. From the yard you go as into an armor hall. Beyond it is the inner courtyard with many doors into the household living quarters. From there a ladder leads to the second floor, which also has many rooms. A similar ladder leads to a flat roof from which you have a broad vista of the far mountains, of rivers and the entire route. The corner of the roof is occupied by an elaborately designed chamber like a tower. And to the roof of this chamber leads another ladder. Ready for the defense, independently, stand the Tibetan estates.

It is a clear morning. On the edges of the road are whole hedges of briar roses. It is an easy journey. Ahead of us are golden sands and behind them the blue mountains, all shades with white caps of early snow. It is even hot. A mile from the road is an old monastery—Sandoling. We decide to enter: Perhaps our lama might be there? Through village dwellings, through stony streams, through rocky masses, dangerous for the horses’ feet, we ascend. We were not attracted by the lamas in the monastery; but behind them there is something invisible—someone who knows much is leading Sandoling on the path of the future.

At Sandoling is the final outpost of Buddhism before the desert and therefore we wanted to know. What signs are in this monastery? There is a new altar of Maitreya with a new image glowing with strong colors. There is an excellent image of Dukar. It is pleasant to see the rich collection of banners—these banners were painted in Ladak. Among them are some very colorful ones of various fantastic subjects. All are trimmed with vivid silk. There is a good library. The head lama of the monastery is absent. Again we do not find our lama. In the early morning he had left on the road to the frontier. We shall hasten to find him. It is a long village. Another house of our Lun-po is here—but we shall go farther. The banks of the streams and the slopes of the mountain are covered with snow-white soda. The strata of the mountain slopes are blue, crimson and brown, indicating the vast abundance of metals. It somehow seems to us that radium must be here, in these blessed, unexploited regions.

The frontier site—Panimikh. Of course, on maps, the frontier is indicated through Karakorum—but upon the heights no one has established the frontiers—and human kind ends in Panimikh Of course, human endeavor often extends further, also. Beyond Panimikh, as was to be expected for our further passage, the bridge fell to pieces. This mysterious repairing of the roads was encountered by us in other localities.

We were told that in the village two Sahibs from Yarkand were stopping. We had hardly had time to unfold our tents when they approached us; they were two Swedish missionaries, one of them the ailing Germanson. They return to Stockholm. Germanson tells of the difficult places on the road. He speaks about Chinese Turkestan without any special enthusiasm.

Opposite Panimikh, behind the river, on the background of a red rock, as though glued, is a monastery of the Red Sect. Against the red background of the mountains, one cannot even see the approach to the monastery. It is as though, to save itself from enemies, the monastery had flown up and perched on the unseen ledge. Far to the left flows the Nubra, and our road goes to the right almost touching the row of cliffs. So, toward evening, we are nearing the foot of the pass, Karaul davan. There is a fantasy of mountain masses. We pause at the very beginning of the steep ascent.

The evening ends with an unexpected encounter with a Moslem. At the frontier of the desert there proceeds a talk about Mohammed, about the domestic life of the Prophet and about his reverence for woman. The talk continues about the movement of the Achmadis, and about legends saying that the tomb of Jesus is in Srinagar and the tomb of Mary in Kashgar. Again about the legends of Issa! Moslems are especially interested in these legends.

The moon rises in conflict with the bonfires. Finally the lama comes! In order to avoid the bridge he was led somewhere through a torrent. In the mountains, it is so everywhere. Even being familiar with thirty ways, you may not know the thirty-first. The lama will go on the pass by night; they prepare a lantern and an ax for him.

Karaul davan, although lower than Khardong, seemed more difficult to us. Especially severe are the masses of enormous boulders along the descent. What gigantic work was entailed here, to polish and accumulate these heavy bulks! Near Territ was a path of briars. Here the trail of skeletons started. Horses, donkeys, yaks, in all positions, and in all stages of decomposition. It is good that the evil smell is little perceived in this cold air. Many skeletons are congealed as if in a jumping position. It is like the last leap of the Valkyries. Among the boulders, we are squeezed together between the rocks. Omar-Khan’s horse fell. At the fording a sheep was drowned. Is it possible that the great caravan paths of the past eternally came up against these huge masses?

From behind a stone rises a strange figure in a woolly Yarkand cap, a fur kaftan and a lantern. This is the lama dressed as a Yarkandi. The moon rose early and the lama crossed the comb of the pass successfully. The same day—an unexpected discovery. It appears that the lama speaks Russian. He even knows many of our friends. All the while no one would have suspected such knowledge. When one spoke Russian in his presence, not a muscle revealed that he understood. And in his answers he never once showed his knowledge of what we said in Russian. Once more it is clear how difficult it is to appraise the measure of knowledge of the lamas. Toward the evening—snow and wind; the servants and caravaneers decide to interrupt the march for four hours, although we could still have proceeded boldly for two hours. We gave in unnecessarily—and we came right into a strip of the first snow. We pass the night near the powerful glacier, amidst endless boulders. Two more horses fell.

The approach to Sasser Pass is higher than seventeen thousand feet. There is a complete Arctic stillness. Glaciers and snowpeaks—a most beautiful spot. The billows of the clouds roll by and open up new, endlessly new, combinations of the cosmic structure. There are broad lines; all the ornaments and arabesques are discarded.

The people become more concentrated. Everywhere are the bodies of animals. There are also human tombs, and our people try to hide it from us. As if this could have any effect on us! Omar-Khan lost two more horses. The purga (blizzard) is commencing. Overnight we are thickly covered with snow. The water in the pitchers freezes. It is impossible to paint because the hands become numb so quickly. It is good that in Kashmir we lined our tents with heavy material. Our fur shoes come in handy.

You, my young friends, I remind you to provide yourselves with clothes for heat and especially for cold. The cold approaches quickly and sharply. Suddenly you cease to feel your extremities. Have always at hand a little medicine chest. The chief considerations are the teeth and the stomach; also prevention against colds. Have bandages for cuts and bruises. All this has already been of use in our caravan. Any kind of wine on the heights is very harmful. Against headaches—pyramidon. One should not eat much. Very useful is Tibetan tea; it is really a hot soup and warms one very well. It is light and nourishing. The soda which is used in the tea keeps the lips from painful chapping.

Do not overfeed the dogs and horses, otherwise bleeding will begin and you will have to do away with the animal. The whole path is covered with the traces of blood. One must make sure, in advance, that the horses have already been on the heights. Many untried horses perish at once. On such difficult passes all social differences are erased; all remain just people, equally working, equally near to danger. Young friends, you must know all conditions of the caravan life in the desert. Only upon such ways will you learn to fight with the elements, where each uncertain step is already an actual death. There you will forget the number of days and hours. There the stars will shine for you as heavenly runes. The foundation of all teachings is fearlessness. Not in bitter-sweet, summer suburban camps, but on the severe heights, learn keenness of thought and resourcefulness of action. Not only during lectures, in well-heated auditoriums, but upon the cold glaciers, realize the power of the work of matter and you will understand that each end is but the beginning of something still more significant and beautiful.

Again the piercing gale. The fire becomes dim. The wings of the tent are flapping noisily—they want to fly.

Sasser davan met us in every way most severely. Before dawn a pricking purga had commenced. We ascend to Sasser—this gigantic moraine is completely covered with frozen snow. We hurry to go farther because it will be still worse. Our entire path is marked with many bodies of animals. The icy trail along the edge sometimes narrows completely, only allowing of a horse-hoof. The horses proceed by themselves. We walked six hours through the glaciers. Gegen had an attack of bleeding; he fell from his horse. Especially dangerous is the ascent on the arched surface of the cap of the glacier. Sabsa, George’s horse, is slipping terribly on the greenish ice. Amidst the glaciers, for a moment, the sun flashes—all the white kingdom dazzles with an unendurable glow. Straight before us appears a wondrous little black lake between white shores; and again everything is covered by the opaque purga. Beyond the glaciers we proceed along an Arctic ridge. Finally, to our astonishment, we see grazing camels. They travel as far as the northern foot of Sasser, and there take over the loads which were transported by horses and yaks through the Sasser. Some of our Ladakis going through the passes for the first time, never have seen camels and timidly they go around these long-bodied curiosities. The horses are snorting. My hostler, Gurban, looks back, and shaking his fist, threateningly repeats: “Sasseri! Sasseri!”

We pass by Sasser Sarai—a ruined stony square. We stopped in the beautiful valley beside the current of the river Shayok. On the right side of the stream passes the winter road to Turkestan. By this road one avoids the passes, but one has to cross the river very often, and in some places even to go with the stream. In September the river reaches the height of one’s shoulders, and is dangerous for horses and men. In addition, the road takes almost a week longer. We shall go the shorter way. Unexpectedly, we come into a narrow crevice between two purple rocks. It is astonishing to what extent all signs of a road often disappear. One has to pass these places more than once in order to remember all the contours and windings of the road—the unseen one.

The colors are beautiful. Behind us are the white giants. And it is strange to realize that we have just descended from them. To the left—many sharply outlined snow-peaks and yellow slopes. Straight ahead of us—the light gray bed of Shayok, with some reddish and bronze-green little islands. Beyond them are purple and velvety brown rocks. To the right flows the river and clouds of snowy dust whirl about. The sky is not at rest. Milky white clouds, like heavy threads, are creeping behind Sasser. Had we hurried ahead one day toward Sasser we would have avoided these snowy persecutions. The September monsoon of Kashmir creeps along and pursues us over the mountains, changing from a pouring rain into a severe purga. The restlessness of Nature is reflected in the animals. The horses are kicking; the dogs are snarling.

At dawn, everything is again frozen. Everything is covered with a deep snow. The horses are shivering. Now they will have to ford Shayok. Like black silhouettes, the riders are hurrying upon the light shore. They have succeeded in finding a fording place, where the water reaches up only to the stomach of the horse.

After the broad valley we dived down at once into a narrow canyon. It was formed in an unusually fantastic way. In the blue stream, the ice of the night was cracking. The red walls were full of white cracks—like pages of runes. Again, unexpected ascents and turns in narrow passes. We emerged upon a broad valley surrounded by vari-colored mountains. The varied shining layers in the mountain slopes reflect some inner treasures. On the slopes two lonely figures are moving—every new being astonishes one in this silence. Are these not treasure seekers? No, they are people from some caravan sent for roots and twigs of withered bush, for their fire. After this, all possibility of obtaining fuel is gone and one must make provision for several days.

Among the mountains are small, muddy lakes. On the mossy shores quick little wood-snipes are scurrying. The altitude of sixteen thousand feet does not frighten them. Ravens are cawing. There are very few eagles. On account of the lack of fuel we also stopped unusually early—by two o’clock. The people went with sacks to gather the roots of bushes. As on the frescoes of Gozzoli, the groups of faceted purple mountains appear, cut by warm brown hillocks. Light yellow swamp grass covers the deep valley. The black horses stand out with unusual sharpness against the light yellow background. They seem immeasurably big. Here in the spaces of Asia originated the tales of the Giant Bogatyrs. Either it is the height or the purity of the air which makes all proportions bigger, and the rider, who appears from behind a hill, looks like a giant. The middle-sized Kirghiz dog takes on the proportions of a bear. The scale of measurements is great here.

Mighty must be the streams in the mountains to leave such broad river beds filled with these eroded pebbles. Reflected in the beauty of the Grand Canyon you feel some tragic catastrophe. Near Karakorum you feel the long incomprehensible labor as of giants—is it not here that structures of the future were prepared?

What a wind! The skin is chapped as though cut.

It is very difficult with the languages—in the caravan one hears six languages absolutely unrelated to each other.

The provision of hay has disappeared. It is clear that the hostlers have fed their horses with the hay. Nazar-bey screamed something for a long time. Finally, we understood that our cook ate up the hay. The cook was deeply offended.

The lama is informing us about various significant things. Much of this news is known to us—but it is instructive to see how, in various countries, the very same conditions are being reflected. Different countries are as under glasses of different colors. Again we are astonished at the knowledge of the organization of lamas. The whole of Asia is pierced as with roots by this wandering organization.

It is astonishing how quickly the news spreads without any mail communications. And then, these caravan fires, like glow-worms, attract unexpected listeners. Quicker than by couriers, flies the winged news to the bazaars. And they whisper beside the long pipe. . . . Understand!

It is a cold night. Everything is firmly frozen. The entire day was woven out of beautiful yellow and red tones. First we proceeded upon the steep, crumbling slopes of the red gorge. We passed the old stony rampart—the remains of military fortresses or frontier posts. Below were the iridescent, yellow, green and ultramarine little streams. Afterwards, we crossed to the broad old river bed—the hillside Debsang. For six hours we went along all sorts of solemn sand formations. They are like pyramids of giants; like cities with cragged walls; like solitary watch-towers; like gates to some forbidden countries; like monuments of battles, long-silenced. It is a full variety, never repeated, colored with infinite feeling. I would like to stop here for a week. But the caravaneers are looking at the sky where the icy Kashmiri dragon already shows its stormy wings.

E.I.has been on horseback all the ten days. She does not like small decisions. She had never been horseback riding and here she suddenly went on horseback through Karakorum. And always she is valiant and the first one ready. Even her knee injured in Kashmir has somehow ceased to trouble her. It is simply astonishing!

In the evening we reached Debsang davan. It became still colder. It would be better if Debsang were called Ulan Korum, meaning the Red Throne. At the entrance protrudes a powerful rock like a red cap.

Be cautious with the mountain streams. They rejoice one with their crystal purity but in the water behind a turn there may be a dead horse or a camel with a bloody jaw.

We passed Debsang. We went out upon the roof of the world. It is impossible to call it otherwise. All the peaks have disappeared. Before us there are seeming covers as of some powerful inner domes. Looking at these sandy domes it is impossible to imagine one’s self at an altitude of eighteen thousand feet. Limitless spaces. To the left, far off, is Godwin’s White Peak. To the right on the horizon are the masses of Kunlun. All is so variegated and glorious and sweeping. The blue sky merges on pure cobalt and the grassless cupolas are domes of a golden hue. And the far-off peaks are silhouetted like pure white cones. The file of the caravan does not disturb the silence of the highest road of the world.

The hostler asks: “Why it is that here, at such a height is such an even surface? What is there inside?”

We read a Latin inscription upon a stone, concerning the camping of the Fillippi Expedition here. The men think that a hundred cases of the expedition were buried in this place.

There is a sharp wind blowing. We are hurrying toward Karakorum. We reach it but the crossing has to be left until tomorrow morning. Karakorum means Black Throne. Its black cap had been seen for several miles, but when we reached it, it was already too dark to sketch or to take photographs. In the evening we decided to go to Suget davan and Sanju davan instead of Karghalik. It is true that Sanju is also higher than eighteen thousand feet and is considered difficult, depending upon the amount of snow, but this way we save six days. Besides, on the way to Karghalik there is much water, and some of the men complain that several times a day they have to go waist-deep in water, and in October this is dangerous.

Karakorum. Again everything is frozen. The morning begins with a stinging blizzard. Everything is covered with mist. One cannot sketch nor photograph. Vaguely the black cap of Karakorum at times gleams through.

All that we now see has nothing in common with what we saw yesterday. Thus we proceed under the sharp wind from seven o’clock to two in this rarefied air. The pass itself is broad but not difficult except for those on foot. One has the strange sensation of feeling breathless even at the slightest movement. Upon the crest of the pass is a small pyramid of stones—those who pass, in spite of their breathlessness, do not forget to set a landmark to commemorate the conquest.

The descent is not steep, but the wind becomes stronger. It is necessary to cover the face with something, and one remembers the usefulness of Tibetan silk masks for traveling. During the day the snow slows down and beautiful white panoramas appear—whole masses of snowy cupolas and cones. There are even no birds.

At six o’clock we pause on a broad river bed. Around us in the deep silence is a whole amphitheater of snowy summits. The delicacy of the pearly tones is a sight never seen before. There is a full moon—and the silence of cold, pure, undefiled nature. We cross the highest road of the world, eighteen thousand six hundred feet. We cross the frontier of China. Our Chinese meditatively utters: “Chinese soil!” and for some reason shakes his head.

We reached the division of the road to Kokyar or Sanju. Opposite Baksun Bulak is a wondrous white mountain—so fine, so untouched and delicate in its profiles. The bright sun reminded me of the frozen Fjords of Norway or the blue fairy-tale of Ladoga in winter. But here it is all more broad and more powerful. Before us, in the distance, are mountains etched with white outlines, as upon the old Chinese landscapes. Near the road grazed two Tibetan antelopes—one raised its head and gazed long at the caravan. The Buddhists did not shoot them: “We have enough food with us.” Someone else will betray the confidence of these slender creatures. Right at the road lies a donkey with a fragrant load of cinnamon. Where is his owner? The people explain that this tired little donkey has been left to rest until the next caravan. There are no wild beasts here. And no traveler will break this special ethic of the caravan. We also saw loads left by some people on Sasser. They remained untouched.

In the frosty sun of the morning, before our camp, the snowy Mount Patos was clearly outlined. Thus, the Mahatma Ak-Dorje, passing from Tibet, named this highest summit of the Ridge (Patos phonetically, but Aktag in the local dialect). The mount stands above the division of road to Karghalik-Yarkand and Karakash-Khotan. The path Karghalik-Yarkand is lower—there are only two passes, not very high, but therefore having many rivers. The Karakash-Khotan path is higher and more mountainous. The passes are higher but on the other hand shorter.

The mount towers like a cone between the two wings of the white ridge. The lama, upon hearing about it, whispers: “The great teacher was not against true Buddhism. He said ‘The true Buddhism is a good teaching.’ ”

The day started peacefully. We continued from seven o’clock on, up the gradual incline of Suget davan. The ascent is almost imperceptible and it is not startling to see so many skeletons. The peace of Nature forces you to forget the altitude. Near the road lies a woolly little dog just as though alive. By three o’clock imperceptibly, we reached the Pass itself. It is well always to ask about the northern side of the Pass; this side is always severe. And so it was here. The straight and easy way was suddenly carved out into a powerful, jagged ascent. In the distance were spread the white purple mountains covered by a somewhat mournful design. A blizzard commenced; and into the bare spots of the snowy dust, pitilessly resounded the almost bluish-black sky. The path was completely covered.

Four caravans had assembled, comprising up to four hundred horses. The loaded, experienced mules were first sent ahead; we followed them. The entire descent was covered with the black zigzags of the silhouettes of horses. The air vibrated with the shouts of “Hosh! Hosh!” And everything crept down, stumbling, gliding and shoving. It was dangerous. The people were astonished at the early snow. We reached the stopping-point only at nine o’clock in the evening, by moonlight. The Turks quarreled with the Buddhists. Nazar-bey wanted to lead us somewhere far off. The Chinese rushed at him with a whip. The human quarrels affected the animals. The horses began to snort. The affair ended with a fight of the dogs—wild Tumbal hurt Amdong very seriously.

E.I.goes on horseback for more than thirteen hours without dismounting. It shows that the usual so-called fatigue may be conquered by something else, more powerful.

Again, the piles of stones; red and yellow bushes appear, very beautiful against the warm white haze of the sands. A meager willow appears beside the stream. Partridges and hares are seen. But as a whole, surprisingly few animals. We passed by some old walls transformed into heaps of stone. The people are anxious to reach the Chinese post, Kurul or Karaul-Surget. Gradually we descend. Already some kind of flat walls are seen. Somebody runs out from behind the gates—then scurries to hide. Some one comes out to meet us.

Amidst the wide hot plain, surrounded by snow mountains, stands the clay square, Kurul. In the distance, enticingly glimmers Kunlun. In the fortress are twenty-five soldiers, Sarts and Kirghiz and one Chinese officer with a secretary and translator. We saw no arms. Only in the narrow room of the officer hung a big single-barreled gun with a cock, like a duck’s head. With this instrument one cannot shoot very much.

If Shin-lo, this Chinese frontier officer here, would only know how touched we were by his hearty reception! Isolated in these far-off mountains, deprived of every means of communication, this officer by his help and kindness reminded us of those traits of the better China. It was so important to us—because we go to China with sincere friendship and an open heart! And we met and said farewell to Shin-lo most heartily. Out of friendship we even unfolded our tents on the dusty yard of the fort. The people wanted to remain here at least one more day, because the desert has already begun. They rejoice. But we regret something unrepeatable. Crystals of the summits, will the lace of the desert sands replace you? Other caravans arrive. They talk around the camp-fire. Conversation, smiles, pipes and rest. They whisper: “In Bhutan, they await the coming soon of Shambhala.”—“First was India, then China, afterward Russia and now will be Shambhala.” . . .

“In the Temple under the image of Buddha is an underground boiling lake. Once a year they descend and throw into the lake precious stones.” . . .

Thus a whole saga of beauty is being discussed. Camp-fires! Fire-flies of the desert! You stand like banners of the people’s decisions.

We had not passed a mile from Kurul when we reached the current of the river, Karakash daria, which means Black Nefrite. Along the streams of Karakash were found certain kinds of jade which gave to Khotan its past glory. One of the western gates of the Great Wall of China was even called the Jade Gate because through it used to be brought these beloved stones. Now in these places they do not even remember about the quarrying of jade. The color of Karakash daria, so bluish-green, itself recalls the best kinds of jade. It is a quick river, a joyous river, a noisy river. And this is the native country, not only of jade but also of gold. For several days Karakash daria becomes our guide. We pass several Mazars—venerated Moslem graves. One would think that their semispherical roofs, with a tower in the middle, were nothing else than the forms of an ancient Buddhist Chorten. When we approached the tomb of a saint, the Kirghiz guide jumped down from his horse and with a beautiful gesture offered his worship. It was difficult to expect from this clumsy body so beautiful a movement.

Fort Shahidula is abandoned—it is the usual lonely clay square. Besides, in these places, cannons have never yet made their appearance and have not threatened the clay walls.

It becomes hot. The altitude is not more than twelve thousand feet and above eighteen thousand it affects the breathing. We receive word that the yaks are ready for the passage of Sanju davan. Toward evening the shamal sprang up—the northeastern gale. For the first time we were in the midst of a real sand purga. The red mountains were hidden; the sky became gray. As high, thick pillars, the sand rose and moved slowly in a spiral, penetrating everything it encountered. The tents try to fly into midair. The horses slink down and turn their backs to the winds. All colorings disappear and only Karakash hastens on—as emerald as before.

We proceeded through the entire day, along the Karakash. It is difficult to remember how many times we forded the river. In some places it reached up to the horse’s belly, in other places it was lower than the knees. On one rocky edge the entire trail was washed away. We had to hurry and cross along separate boulders in the tumult of the current. Again came a severe stony road. Two horses of Nazar-bey broke their legs. Everywhere, the shamal of yesterday left its traces. Mountains are covered with a gray haze. All day, a cloud of all-penetrating dust hangs in the air. One’s eyes smart. The whole coloring is changed. The sky has become purple. Only the joyous river glimmers as before with its greenish sparks. The first little encampments of the mountain Kirghiz appeared—yurtas covered the felts, or stony squares leaning against the rock. Small fields begin. Here are small Kirghiz women in high white head-dresses and red kaftans, some with peaked little Kirghiz caps. If only the photographs are successful! A picturesque group is set against the purple background of the sandy soft tones of the mountains. On a tiny gray donkey, is a woman in a bright red kaftan and a high head-dress. In her arms is a child in a light gray cover. Beside her is a man in a green kaftan with a red-peaked hat. Above them the dim purple sky. Who would wish to paint the Flight to Egypt?

Very steep lie the trails above the turbulent river. The camping site is in a sandy valley, in the middle of which is a dusty caravanserai. We have not the energy to stop in this yard permeated with dust. On the neighboring slopes it is also difficult to camp. There is either solid rock only, or soft shifting sands and neither of the two holds the pegs of the tents. With difficulty we find a spot. Gradually we discover the damage in the luggage. Here is a lock torn away; there a yakhtan has been soaked when the horse fell into the river.

Again, the camp-fires. Again there gather some sort of unknown woolly people. We must say, however, that none among these clumsy strangers did us harm. The notorious thievery of the Kirghiz did not touch us.

Again, some of the whispers of the camp-fires: “Burkhan Bullat (meaning the Sword of Buddha) appears at certain dates and then nothing will withstand it.”—“Ulan Tserik became terribly strong.”—“Everything that the enemies do will turn against themselves.”—“More than a hundred years ago two scientist Brahmins went to Shambhala and set out toward the north.”—“The Blessed Buddha was in Khotan and from there decided to go northwards.”—“In one of the best monasteries of China the doctor of metaphysics is a Buriat.”—“In the big Monastery the head Abbot is a Kalmuck.”—“On the picture of Buddha the Conqueror the fire of justice flashes from the sword of the Blessed One.”—“The Prophet said that Damascus would be destroyed before the new era.” Thus the pilgrims are whispering on the way of Gaya, Sarnath or to Mecca. We meet long files of gray-bearded Akhuns and veiled female figures on the road. They are hastening before the approaching winter. They are a speedy mail.

The day ended with a shamal. Gigantic clouds of dust like an invisible transmigration of the peoples. One must know also this threatening image of Asia. Where else are there such extremities of heat and frost? Where else are the winds so unbearable after midday? Where are the rivers so treacherous when they overflow during the floods and where are the sands so pitiless? And where else is the gold not removed from the banks? Where else are so many skulls gleaming white under the sun? The broad hand of Asia!

Again we make our way along the Karakash. We come to a great old Kirghiz cemetery, mazars with the semispherical vaulted roofs. Low tombs surrounded with staffs and with horse-tails hanging on the ends. Unquestionably these mazars are very often old Buddhist Chortens. Beyond the mazar, we leave the stream of Karakash and begin noticeably to ascend the mountain against the current of a mountain stream. The gorge gradually narrows here. At the left in the yellow sandstone mountain we notice caves several stories high. They are like the caves of Tun-huang. The natives and caravaneers say that they are old Kirghiz houses, but of course, we recognize here the remains of a vanishing Buddhism. The approaches to many of these caves have been worn away by the elements. High above, like aeries, remain the isolated entrances. It is characteristic that these caves are hidden not far from Sanju Pass as if they protected themselves by these mountains, from the waves of Islam. The hostler, Gurban, a Moslem, knows of other similar caves in these regions but is somehow apparently scornful of them. The caves nevertheless are very imposing.

An immeasurable antiquity emanates from these mountains. The sandy haze elevates them seemingly into the skies. And the mountains, instead of signifying limits and obstacles, tempt us once again upward. We reach the very bottom of Sanju. We had heard that there was no snow on the Pass but we had hardly received this information when the Kashmiri dragon overtook us and everything began to be covered with snow. It is a piercing storm. We are huddled together, awaiting the belated tents. The caravan arrives in the dark. From the Pass, a black avalanche of yaks is rushing on, and while running, almost tramples down the camp. Noise and rumble. Snow and cold. But the camp, crouched in the gorge, looks unusually picturesque. Something, as of the paintings of old Bosch or Pieter Brueghel. The fire-light shines on the bronze faces. Through the dark one sees the horns of the black, invisible yaks. The wings of the tents flutter like birds. On the rocks is the gigantic shadow of Omarkhan. Again there are whispers of the desert: “Near the holy mountain Sabur is seen an unknown ancient city. There are many houses and Chortens.” Tomorrow we must arise with the stars. It is a long way—and at day-break snow and wind will start up again to assail us.

Nevertheless, the dragon overtook us during the night. Every thing is covered with snow and frozen. We try out the yaks. We hurry on. The seventh pass is Sanju. It is the steepest one—eighteen thousand three hundred feet. But it is not long. How clingingly the yaks proceed! We are again astonished at them. The saddle strap around the chest of my yak gives away with a snap. We must bind it with cords because on the steep descents one strap will not hold. Only the very summit of Sanju is dangerous. There the yak must skillfully jump across the crevice between two upper crags of a bare rock. There you must resign yourself to the surefootedness of the yak. Gegen falls down from his yak, but happily only bruises his leg. It might be worse. Of course on the northern side is a great amount of snow. We must hasten; and slipping on the sharp zigzags, we descend steeply. It is best not to take mountain sticks with sharp points—those with flat metallic points are better. In the silvery fog, the snow mountains completely merge. It is a pity to bid farewell to the heights, where, although it is cold, it is crystally pure and reverberating! There the word, desert, itself sounds like a challenge to all cities already transformed into ruins, or not yet thus fallen.

Why does it seem so sad to depart further from Kunlun, from the most ancient ridge?

The encampments of Mountain Kirghiz start again. The women and children are clean—one does not see the dreadful disfiguring skin diseases.

Down below in the sandy inclines are some dark hollows—caves. From these caves woolly yaks creep out and transport you into prehistoric times; then, also, the same thing happened. In the middle of the hillside, yellow worn-away hillocks are amassed. From them protrude stone blocks of most fantastic forms. Rhinoceroses, tigers, dogs and some sort of enthroned skeletons—it is all the work of water which has long since flowed away. The hillside is fenced by the warm purple mountains. One does not see snow in the direction of the desert. We stopped near an aul comprising nine yurtas. Within, it is clean. They bring out melons, watermelons and peaches which they get from the Sanju Bazaar or the Guma Bazaar. The mountains are alive with ringing echoes, barking and neighing thunder out like trumpets in the mountain gorges. The Kirghiz women show their embroideries but they will not sell; each works for herself.

It is a short tranquil passage. We stopped ten miles from the Sanju oasis. Isolated yurtas of Kirghiz are scattered about. Often there is one boy driving a whole caravan of camels.

Each day patients come to us with stomach trouble or colds. Once more we feel what the great sands of the desert mean—all-penetrating, searing, impeding the breathing. What regret; the mountains become visibly lower. The altitude of the path is not more than seven thousand feet, while the southern part of the desert is not lower than four thousand feet. It becomes warmer and warmer. A series of paintings, “Maitreya,” is conceived. Again there are camp-fires.

“Rinpoche says that now the way is only through Shambhala—everybody knows that”—“Many prophecies are buried everywhere”—“Three campaigns of the Mongols”—“In the desert behind Keriya a subterranean river flowed above the ground”—“And when they dynamited the rock it was all not of precious stones”—“And there, where one cannot pass, one can go by underground passages.” …

Much is related and the matters of every day are interwoven with something great and already predestined. Much is being spoken about underground passages. But it is natural. From many castles, which are glued to the rocks, long underground passages were constructed to the water, and through these, donkeys used to carry the water. Gradually before us, rises a new picture of significant lives.

Sanju—an oasis. We said farewell to the mountains. Of course, we shall return to them. Of course, other mountains are probably not worse than these—but it is sad to descend from them. The desert cannot bestow on us what the heights have whispered. As a farewell—the mountain bestowed on us something unusual. On the border of the oasis, just on the very last rock which we could still touch, appeared the same designs that we saw in Dardistan on the way back to Ladak. In the books about Ladak, these are called Dard designs, although apparently they bring us back to the Neoliths. And here, in Chinese Turkestan, on the shiny brown masses of rock, are again, as light silhouettes, the same archers, the same mountain sheep with huge twisted horns and the same ritual dances, rounds and processions of people. These are verily messengers of the transmigrations of the people. And there is some special meaning in this, that these designs were left on the border of the mountain kingdom. Farewell, mountains!

Groves of poplars and apricot trees appear, and beyond them spreads the kingdom of the sand. It reminds us of Egypt along the Nile, or of Arabia.

It is time for breakfast and we want to stop; but some riders are galloping toward us and beckon us to come farther. A dastarkhan from the Kirghiz Elders is already prepared. On bright patterned felts, heaps of melons, watermelons, pears, eggs, roast chicken are picturesquely spread, and in the center, is half of a baked mutton. Here are round yellow cookies, with holes, looking as if they might have been torn out of a painting by Peter Aerdsen. It reminded us of dear Kluchino, Novgorod, of our excavations of the Stone Age and of hospitable Efim. And here are the same kaftans, and beards, and colored girdles and small caps bordered with wolf fur or beaver. As a matter of fact, many of these bearded men know single Russian words and are very pleased if they possess some small Russian objects. They know almost nothing of America. It would be good to distribute among these people books in Turki about America. Thought should be given to this.

For the first time we saw Chinese soldiers, in uniforms of the imperial times with red inscriptions on the entire back and chest. Very ragged soldiers they were. The Kirghiz recruits were minus uniforms altogether. Can such an army act at all?

One will ask, where then are the dangers? Where then are the alluring attacks? Because in the cemetery in Leh there are several monuments over the graves of murdered travelers. True, but all these people were killed by the Kashmiris and Afghans. No one was killed by a Ladaki-Buddhist. And then there is a special delight in the consciousness that in the most distant unpeopled place you are safer and less molested than in the streets of Western cities. A London policeman at the entrance of the East End inquires if you are armed and prepared for danger. A night walk in the suburbs of Montparnasse or Montmartre in Paris, or in Hoboken, near New York, is far more full of danger than the paths of Himalaya and Karakorum. And the tornadoes of Texas and Arizona—are they not equal to a gale on the heights? And, besides, these dangers of nature are essentially so joyous, so greatly awaken the vigor and purify the consciousness. There exist collectors of caustic exclamations of danger, but the most unsafe bamboo or rope bridge evokes in you a stubborn resourcefulness. What a pity, to descend out of the unpeopled spaces to the whirl of the human crowd.

One stop beyond Sanju are said to be Buddhist antiquities.

We emerged into a completely different country. Here Ladaki heroism is no more. No more are there the garlands of clear singing of the Ladakis. It is strange that only among Ladakis, did we find strong and agreeable voices. No more are there the castles on the waterless, courageous peaks. No more the suburgans and kurgans of fearlessness. The mountains have disappeared into a gray mist. How now to live, and whither to direct the eye? Here are peaceful, agricultural, ignorant Sarts, a forgotten oasis. Here are peaceful, agricultural slow Turki, who have forgotten completely that they took part in the marches of Jenghis Khan and Tamerlane. It is hot. In Sanju bazaar, it is sandy. From behind the clay walls and fruit-trees are a multitude of faces peeping out, full of fear and hiding—a whole crowd. The colorings remind one of the Nijni-Novgorod Fair. They offer us fruit and roasted mutton. Finally they bring us a gift of a Kirghiz dog.

Bells ring out and into the Maidan a Chinese official comes riding—again a very kind and obliging one. He is astonished that he did not receive a letter about us from the Am-ban of Yarkand but he explains that the Republic in China has discarded special notifications if there is a Chinese passport. And we possess a long passport under the name of Loluchi—which means Roerich. Are the Chinese officials of higher ranks so obliging? We hope that China will fulfill our expectations. When we received the passport they assured us of the help of all governors, of the deputation from the University of Peking. The Chinese official speaks about the passage of the Roosevelts, who turned toward Yarkand. He tells us of the ruins of the imperial palace twelve days from Khotan, which until the present day still yields antiquities. We understand it must be Aksu. Soon we start out on an old Silk Road. Here is the first place where antiquities can be found, because these places, as well as Khotan, are mentioned in the literature of three or four centuries before our present era. On the islands of the deserts, in the oases, were the strongholds of the last multitudes before the transmigration into unknown lands. Clouds stand erect on the horizon, but these are not the usual clouds—these are the plaits of whirling sands. Probably somewhere there is as a strong buran.

Accompanied by the chirping of birds, amid the bleating of the herds, beside the joyous gurgling of the ariks, we left Sanju. Soon we turned away from the oasis and ascended along the sandy incline of a river bed and found ourselves in the real desert. The hills reclined in weak, uncertain silhouettes. The air vibrated on the horizon as though interweaving some new formations. The full design of the sand spread out—this is the veritable Unencompassable, over which passed the great hordes. Jenghis and Tamerlane passed just here and, as upon the waves of the seas there does not remain the trace of a boat, so on the sands remains no vestige of those movements.

Here rises the whole tenderness, the whole mercilessness of the desert. And the Kirghiz point to the hazy pink northeast—there is the great Takla Makan! There are buried cities. There is Kucha—the capital of the former Tokhars. Their manuscripts are known to us—but does one know how to pronounce these signs? By analogies one can read the letters, but the phonetic indications of the sound has disappeared. Farther on, upon the inclines of the mountains, is Karashahr—an ancient place. There, long before it was covered, according to the evidence of Chinese historians, the chalice of Buddha was brought to Karashahr from Peshawar. And still farther, are the foothills of the heavenly mountains where dwell the semi-dependent Kalmucks who remember their history, their mountains and the pastures and sacred mounts. And still further lies the great Altai, which the Blessed Buddha reached.

The shield of the sand quivers. The eradicable signs are ebbed away. We inquire about antiquities. Much has already been carried away from the desert—but still more remains hidden beneath the sands. One can find them only gropingly. And now after a strong buran, from these depths emerge new stupas, new temples and walls of unknown habitations. By the few signs, would you say where the most important things are buried? The inhabitants themselves in speaking are indifferent to the discoveries.

In the distance you see from afar the herds of wild kulans. From a distance, silhouetted, a rider approaches. From far he looks at us, stops, dismounts and spreads out something white. We approach and see a white felt on which are laid two melons and two pomegranates. This is a dastarkhan from an unknown traveler, met upon the way. An unknown friendly hand to a guest. This is a veritable enchanted tablecloth, blanching amidst the immeasurable sands. A greeting from the unknown—to the unknown.

We reached Sanju, an inhabited dusty farming site. There is a labyrinth of clay walls; already upon the children, one sees tetter, a thing which we did not see in the mountains. We could not find any antiquities. People tell us that two Chinese officials came and took with them all the Buddhist antiques, which the inhabitants had accumulated. If this be true—it means that imperial China begins to understand the significance of the study of the old monuments. One must see if this story is altogether true—or whether these officials did not take away these things simply for their own benefit.

From Sanju to Pialma we proceed along the same Silk Road—and “silky” it is not only because the silk caravans passed there, but the road itself is silk and iridescent with all the combinations of sand; a milky desert with the finest designs of sand waves. The wind whirls the pearly dust and beneath your eyes new lacy meshes are created upon the surface of the ground. Old mile-posts are standing erect—the greater number of them half-destroyed. Behind us little bells are ringing. On a big gray horse the son of the neighboring Amban overtakes us. He is going on a leave of absence to Tun-huang—before him he has a journey of two months. He is curious—but very uncouth. He gives us some information concerning Khotan, speaks about the antiquities of Tun-huang. In Pialma there are also antiquities from Takla Makan.

It is a long passage. We proceed quickly from seven to halfpast four—but the people say that tomorrow’s road will be still longer. We make our stop in a fruit orchard—it is infinitely better than in Sanju where the camels, donkeys, horses, roosters and dogs ceaselessly thundered their choruses through the entire night.

From Pialma to Zawa is about thirty-eight miles. We left before dawn under the sign of Orion. For the first time during the journey, we saw the beloved constellation. Again the desert. Toward ten o’clock it is hot, reddened and searing. The stirrup burns the foot through the boot. What must it be like in summer? It is not without cause that during the summer they travel by night marches.

At the right, one sees the blue inclines of Kunlun—they remind us of Santa Fe. On the left, the pink sands of Takla Makan—I recall the desert of Arizona.

The son of the Amban is singing Chinese namthars—sayings about Chinese giants. Unexpectedly sharp, with nasal inhalations, with shouts and the beating of some sort of inexplicable rhythms and final cadenzas. It is difficult to associate this with the epos of giants.

Under the necks of the horses the small straps of bells are ringing. Red tassels wave beneath the reins. So, did the great hordes thunder here.

Three doves flew with us for a long time. Where could they come from in this desert? They were messengers; they brought us to a remarkable place, an old worshiped mazar and mosque. There in the midst of the desert live thousands of doves protected by legend. Every traveler throws them a bit of corn. This benevolent spot is much worshiped. The sight of these countless flocks of doves breathes forth a strange surprise to you. It is an unexpected San Marco. These doves are wayside messengers pointing out the way to the travelers of the desert. It is said “one Chinaman killed and ate such a dove and died immediately.”

The day ends with the golden grassy steppe with barkhans which resemble kurgans. This is the beginning of the Khotan oasis and reminds us of Southern Ukraine. In the evening there is sadness—Amdong has perished. The Lhasan mountain dog could not withstand the desert heat. What a pity! Amdong reminded us so much of a Finnish dog; he was so woolly and quick. Now there remains only black Tumbal—a ferocious one frightening the population. In order not to lose this guardian also we shall carry him in a palanquin tomorrow.

From Zawa we go to Khotan. The entire path is along an oasis. An unbroken line of villages, small bazaars and gardens. They are harvesting the corn and barley. Again donkeys and horses are performing all kinds of domestic work. Again the women have covered faces. They have small boyars’ hats and white veils as on the Byzantine miniatures. Gradually, unnoticeably, we are entering the bazaars of Khotan itself. There remains little of the ancient city. Khotan was known for its jade, its rugs and its song. From all this naught is left. The carpets are modernized; imitations of jade are common; of the songs there are only the simple Moslem songs accompanied by a very long two-stringed “guitar.” There now remain the industries connected with silk, cotton, maize and dried fruits. There is still an unattractive narrow bazaar and dusty alleys between the clay structures.

Ancient Khotan was ten miles away from here, where the village of Yotkan is now. As often happens, the most interesting sites are those covered with mosques and mazars. The flow of antiquity from Yotkan has almost ceased.

We stop temporarily in the dusty garden square in the center of the city. We are trying to fight for a house in the suburbs. It is not easy to obtain, because apparently it conflicts with some one’s interest not comprehensible to us. In the beginning the Chinese officials are decent. The honorary sentinels comprise a guard of soldiers and beks. But they inquire if we will live here for a long time. Visits to the Taotai, Amban and Military Governor. Everywhere we have tea in little saucers with not elaborate sweets. Without delay come the return visits. The Military Governor has a green coach lined with purple. The Taotai has a two-horsed carriage and each horse has a separate wooden arch above it. The bridles are all Russian.

Then comes a luncheon at the Taotai—it lasts from two to six. More than forty courses. The victrola jangles out Chinese legends and songs. Of course the rhythms are very complicated and the variety of instruments can hardly be reproduced by the noisy records. At the end of the luncheon the old official of the yamen becomes drunk and wailingly grumbles something, probably funny.

A native merchant suggests: “Instead of hiring help, buy a dozen girls. The price of a good girl is thirty rupees.” But we do not intend to buy girls although we are listening to it seriously because we are accustomed not to be astonished at anything; however, it is permissible to be astonished at the sale of human beings.

It begins! Kerim Bek who was stationed with us happens to be a blackguard. The stupidly smiling Amban says: “In the house you can paint but outside not.” We inquire the reasons. He smiles again still more stupidly and says the same thing. We ask him to confirm this notification in writing. But he absolutely refuses. We point out that it is precisely with the purpose of artistic work that the expedition has been sent and that it is included in our passport. The Amban smiles thrice stupidly and repeats his unaccountable prohibition.

The most vivid spot of our entrance into Khotan was the arrival of Tumbal in the palanquin. The Ladakis brought in his woolly majesty to the bazaar with loud songs. The black creature scowled and sat very important. The crowd rushed to the palanquin but immediately flew away from it along the entire bazaar howling: “A bear!” All the officials coming to see us considered it their duty to inquire about the fearful beast and the Military Governor, wanting to look at our Tibetan animal, for safety’s sake took George by the hand. Wonderful guards are these Tibetan wolfhounds!

We return home in the evening from the Taotai. The raven horses of “the honorary escort” become startled and frighten our horses. By moonlight, the towers of the Confucian temple with their gongs silently stand. The gongs have been silent all the time.

The road lies northward. Straight ahead, low over the horizon, brightly lies the Great Bear. . . .