nd loudly, filling the air with its unmelodious metallic
notes. A shot was fired. Soldiers with their matchlocks were seen running
here and there. They pulled down one of the black tents and hastily
conveyed it inside the fort, the greater part of the garrison also
seeking shelter within the walls with the _empressement_ almost of a
stampede. When, after some little time, they convinced themselves that we
had no evil intentions, some of the Tibetan officers, followed by their
men, came trembling to meet us. The doctor, unarmed, went ahead to talk
with them, whereas my bearer and I remained with the coolies for the
double purpose of protecting our baggage in case of a treacherous attack,
and of preventing my panic-stricken carriers from abandoning their loads
and escaping. But matters looked peaceful enough. Rugs were spread on the
grass, and eventually we all sat down. An hour's trying parley with the
Tibetan officers, during which time the same things were repeated over
and over again, led to nothing. They said they could on no account allow
any one from India, whether native or sahib, to proceed, and we must go
back. We on our side stated that we were doing no harm. We were pilgrims
to the sacred Lake of Mansarowar, only a few miles farther. We had gone
to much expense and trouble. How could we now turn back when so near our
goal? We would not go back, and trusted they would allow us to proceed.

We treated them courteously and kindly, and probably mistaking this for
fear they promptly took advantage of it, especially the Magbun[17] or
chief officer in charge of the Gyanema fort. His marked humility, of
which at first he had made so much display, suddenly turned into
arrogance. "You will have to cut off my head," said he with a vicious
countenance, "or rather I will cut off yours before I let you go another
step."

"Cut off my head?" cried I, jumping on my feet and shoving a cartridge
into my rifle.

"Cut off my head?" repeated my bearer, pointing with his Martini-Henry at
the official.

"Cut off our heads?" queried angrily the Brahmin and the two Christian
servants of Dr. Wilson, handling a Winchester and a couple of Gourkha
_kukris_ (large knives).

"No, no, no, no! Salaam, salaam, salaam!" poured forth the Magbun with
the celerity of speech only possessed by a panic-stricken man. "Salaam,
salaam," repeated he again, bowing down to the ground, tongue out, and
depositing his hat at our feet in a disgustingly ser