They
could not conceal their terror when, as I spoke louder and louder to the
sponge, it gradually swelled to its normal size with the moisture it
absorbed.

The Tibetans, who at first could hardly believe their eyes at this
incomprehensible occurrence, became panic-stricken at what they believed
to be an exhibition of my occult powers. There was a general stampede in
every direction.

In a way, all this was entertaining. Anyhow, it served to pass away the
time. The most amusing scene that afternoon was, however, still to come.

After some time the Lamas screwed up their courage, and returned to
where my baggage had been overhauled. One of them picked up my
Martini-Henry. The others urged him to fire it off. He came to me, and
when I had explained to him how to load it, he took a cartridge and
placed it in the breech, but would insist on not closing the bolt firmly
home. When I warned him of the consequences, he struck me on the head
with the butt of the rifle.

It is the fashion, when aiming with one of their matchlocks, which have
a prop attached to them, to place the butt in front of the nose instead
of holding it firmly against the shoulder, as we do. So the Lama aimed
in this fashion at one of my yaks peacefully grazing some thirty yards
off. While everybody watched attentively to see the result of this
marksman's shooting, he pulled the trigger; the rifle went off with an
extra loud report, and behold! the rifle burst and the violent recoil
gave the Lama a fearful blow in the face. The rifle, flying out of his
hands, described a somersault in the air, and the Lama fell backward to
the ground, where he remained spread out flat, bleeding all over, and
screaming like a child. His nose was squashed, one eye had been put out,
and his teeth were shattered.

Whether the rifle burst because the bolt had not been properly closed,
or because mud had got into the muzzle, I could not say.

The injured Lama was the one at the head of the party that wanted to
have my head cut off, so, naturally enough, I could not help betraying
my satisfaction at the accident. I was glad they had let me live another
day, were it only to see this amusing scene.

The Pombo, who had been, during the greater part of the afternoon,
looking at me with an air of mingled pity and respect, as though he had
been forced against his will to treat me so brutally, could not help
joining in my laughter at the Lama's sorrowful plight. In a way, I
be