elf sought the hospitality
of a neighbour. The Lamas who had accompanied us did not withdraw until
they had made for us some tea with milk, and set before us some mutton,
some fresh butter, and some exquisite rolls. We supped with excellent
appetite, for we were thoroughly hungry, and, moreover, we experienced in
our inmost heart a feeling of peculiar contentment, for which it seemed
difficult to account.

We attempted to sleep, but it was in vain; slumber would not come near
us; our minds, indeed, were too full of the strange position in which we
now found ourselves. The whole thing appeared quite inconceivable.
There were we, in this land of Amdo, unknown to Europe; in this great
Lamasery of Kounboum, so famous, so venerated among Buddhists, in the
cell of one of its ablest Lamas, amidst conventual manners altogether new
to us; all these and analogous considerations whirled through and about
the brain, like the vague intangible forms of a dream. We passed the
night framing all sorts of plans.

As soon as day began to dawn we were on foot. Around us all was still
silent. We offered up our morning prayer, our hearts agitated with
sentiments altogether new to us in their peculiar character; with mingled
joy and pride that it had been thus vouchsafed to us to invoke the true
God in this famous Lamasery, consecrated to a lying and impious worship.
It seemed to us as though we were about to grasp universal Buddhism
within the paternal arms of the Christian faith.

Sandara soon made his appearance, and prepared for our breakfast some tea
with milk, raisins, and cakes fried in butter. While we were occupied
with our meal, he opened a small cupboard, and took out a wooden plate,
highly polished, and decorated with gilding and flowers, upon a red
ground. After wiping it carefully with his scarf, he placed upon it a
broad sheet of pink paper, then, upon the paper, he symmetrically
arranged four fine pears, which he had directed us to buy at
Tang-Keou-Eul, and then he covered the whole with a silk handkerchief, of
oblong form, called in these countries Khata. "With this," said he, "we
will go and borrow a lodging for you."

The Khata, or Scarf of Blessings, is so prominent a feature in Thibetian
manners, that we may as well give an account of it. The Khata, then, is
a piece of silk, nearly as fine as gauze, and of so very pale a blue as
to be almost white. Its length about triples its breadth, and the two
extremiti