passes in which the cold there does not kill many travellers.
Frequently whole caravans, not arriving at their destination on the other
side of the mountain, are sought and found on its bleak road, man and
beast frozen to death. Nor is the danger less from the robbers and the
wild beasts with whom the mountain is a favourite haunt, or rather a
permanent station. Assailed by the brigands, the unlucky traveller is
stripped, not merely of horse and money, and baggage, but absolutely of
the clothes he wears, and then left to perish from cold and hunger.

Not but that the brigands of these parts are extremely polite all the
while; they do not rudely clap a pistol to your ear, and bawl at you:
"Your money or your life!" No; they mildly advance with a courteous
salutation: "Venerable elder brother, I am on foot; pray lend me your
horse--I've got no money, be good enough to lend me your purse--It's
quite cold to-day, oblige me with the loan of your coat." If the
venerable elder brother charitably complies, the matter ends with,
"Thanks, brother;" but otherwise, the request is forthwith emphasized
with the arguments of a cudgel; and if these do not convince, recourse is
had to the sabre.

[Picture: First Encampment]

The sun declining ere we had traversed this platform, we resolved to
encamp for the night. Our first business was to seek a position
combining the three essentials of fuel, water, and pasturage; and, having
due regard to the ill reputation of the _Good Mountain_, privacy from
observation as complete as could be effected. Being novices in
travelling, the idea of robbers haunted us incessantly, and we took
everybody we saw to be a suspicious character, against whom we must be on
our guard. A grassy nook, surrounded by tall trees, appertaining to the
Imperial Forest, fulfilled our requisites. Unlading our dromedaries, we
raised, with no slight labour, our tent beneath the foliage, and at its
entrance installed our faithful porter, Arsalan, a dog whose size,
strength, and courage well entitled him to his appellation, which, in the
Tartar-Mongol dialect, means "Lion." Collecting some _argols_ {23} and
dry branches of trees, our kettle was soon in agitation, and we threw
into the boiling water some Kouamien, prepared paste, something like
Vermicelli, which, seasoned with some parings of bacon, given us by our
friends at Yan-Pa-Eul, we hoped would furnish satisfaction for the hunger
that