the spikes along
my spine--The rope breaks--An ill omen--A second shot misses
me--Arrows--The end of my terrible ride.

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 banner-men whose heads were covered
by peculiar flat fluffy hats, and the same number of soldiers and
officers in their grey, 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 a little 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 its own
devices. 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 named Nerba (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 (I learned afterwards) this Nerba was one of the champion shots
in the country, and the distance from the muzzle of his matchlock to me
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 very steady aim; but 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 the lower part of my spine terribly.

[Illustration: NERBA FIRING AT ME]

Several horsemen now rode up and captured my pony, and preparations were
made for another exciting number in the programme of my tortures. In
their way these noble Lamas were of 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; and when they led me before the Pombo to show him
how covered with blood I was, I ex