applied for permission to let only
eight of us proceed to Mansarowar. He (the doctor) himself would remain
at Gyanema with the rest of the party, as a proof of good faith. Even
this offer they rejected, not directly, but with hypocritical excuses
and delays. They thought we could not find our way, and that if we did
we should find it rough and the climate too severe; that brigands might
attack us, and so on. All this was tiresome. The Tibetans were even
getting unpleasant. I decided to bring matters to a crisis.

Still holding the rifle cocked at safety on my lap, I turned the muzzle
of it toward the Tarjum, and purposely let my hand slide down to the
trigger. He became uncomfortable. His face showed signs of
apprehension.

His eyes, until now fixed on the ground, became first unsteady, and then
settled fixedly, with a look of distress, on the muzzle of my rifle. He
tried to dodge the aim, right or left, by moving his head. I made the
weapon follow his movements. The Tarjum's servants fully shared their
master's fear. Without doubt the poor fellow was in agony; his tone of
voice, a moment before loud and insulting, now became very humble. With
much meekness he expressed himself ready to please us in every way.

"I see that you are good people," said he, in a faint whisper
accompanied by a deep bow. "I cannot give, as I should like, my official
approval to your journey forward, but you can go if you wish. I cannot
say more. Eight of you can proceed to the sacred Mansarowar Lake. The
others will remain here."

Before giving his final decision, he said that he would prefer to have
another consultation with his officers.

We granted this readily.

The Tarjum then presented the doctor with a roll of Tibetan cloth.

I had bathed in the morning, and my Turkish towel was spread outside the
tent to dry. The Tarjum, who showed great interest in all our things,
took a particular fancy to its knotty fabric. He sent for his child to
see this wonderful material, and when he arrived the towel was placed on
the youth's back as if it were a shawl. I at once offered it to him as a
present if he would accept it. There were no bounds to his delight, and
our relations, somewhat strained a few minutes earlier, became now of
the friendliest character. We invited the party inside our tent, and
they examined everything with curiosity, asking endless questions. They
were now quite pleasant, and even amusing. Tibetans have a craving for
a