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 s