azement. My fingers happen to be webbed
rather higher than usual. This is most highly thought of in Tibet. A
person possessing such fingers has, according to the Tibetans, a charmed
life. No matter how much is tried, no real harm can be done to him.
Apart from the question whether there was much charm or not in my life
in Tibet, there is no doubt that this trifling superstition did much
toward hastening the Pombo's decision as to what was to be our fate.

The Pombo ordered that my life should be spared, and that I should on
that very day start on my return journey toward the Indian frontier. He
took from my own money one hundred and twenty rupees, which he placed in
my pocket for my wants during the journey, and commanded that, though I
must be kept chained up, I was to be treated kindly, and my servants
also.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 14: From sunset one evening to sunset next day.]

CHAPTER XXIII

LED TO THE FRONTIER

When all was ready, Mansing and I were led on foot to Toxem. Our guard
consisted of some fifty horsemen. We had to travel at a great speed
despite our severely lacerated feet, our aching bones, and the sores and
wounds with which we were covered all over. The soldiers led me tied by
the neck like a dog, and dragged me along when, panting, exhausted, and
suffering, I could not keep up with the ponies. We crossed several cold
streams, sinking in water and mud up to our waists.

At Toxem, to my delight, I beheld Chanden Sing still alive. He had been
kept prisoner in the mud house, where he had remained tied upright to a
post for over three days. For four days he had eaten no food nor drunk
anything. He was told that I had been beheaded. He was in a dreadful
condition--almost dying from his wounds, cold, and starvation.

We were detained for the night in one of the rooms of the mud house. The
place was packed with soldiers who gambled the whole night, and sang and
swore and fought, preventing us from sleeping for even a few minutes. We
were half choked by the smoke from the fire.

The next day at sunrise Chanden Sing and I were placed on yaks, not on
riding-saddles, but on wooden pack-saddles. Poor Mansing was made to
walk, and was beaten mercilessly when, tired and worn, he fell or
remained behind. Finally they tied a rope round his neck and dragged him
along in a most brutal manner. A strong guard prevented our escaping.
The soldiers demanded fresh relays of yaks and ponies, and food for