at we had at last arrived.

It was then between 2 and 3 A.M. The rain still came down in torrents.
There was no sign of the inhabitants being willing to give us shelter.
It was quite out of the question to pitch our little _tente d'abri_, for
our things were already wringing wet.

We knocked on a door so hard that the door itself nearly gave way. This
was a shelter-house, a _serai_ for pilgrims, and as we claimed to be
pilgrims, we had, by the laws of the country, a right to admission.
Nattoo, who had once before reached this lake by a different route, led
us to this house.

"You are bandits," said a hoarse voice from inside, "or you would not
come at this hour."

"No, we are not," we entreated. "Please open. We are well-to-do people.
We will harm no one, and pay for all."

"_Middu, Middu!_" (Cannot be, no!) "You are brigands. I will not open."

To show that we were not what they imagined, Chanden Sing and Dola
tapped again so gently at the door that the bolt gave way. The next
moment ten strangers were squatting down round a warm fire drying their
shrivelled-up, soaked skins by the flame of dried tamarisk and dung. The
landlord--a doctor, by-the-way--was reassured when he saw that we had no
evil intentions, and found some silver coins in the palm of his hand.
Yet, he said, he rather wished we would go and sleep somewhere else.
There was a capital empty hut next door, he suggested.

On our agreeing to this, he conducted us to the place, and there we
spent the remainder of the night--or, rather, the early morning.

Our abode was a one-storied flat-roofed house built of stones and mud.
There were two rooms--the first lighted by the door, the second and
larger having a square opening in the ceiling for the triple purpose of
ventilation, lighting, and outlet for the smoke of the fire, which
burned directly underneath in the centre of the room. The beams and
rafters supporting the roof had been brought over from the Indian side
of the Himahlyas, as no timber was to be found in western Tibet.

This building was in charge of a young, half-crazy Lama, who was most
profuse in salutations, and who remained open-mouthed, gazing at us for
a considerable time. He was polite and attentive. He helped to dry our
things in the morning, and, whenever we asked for anything, he ran out
of the house in frantic fits of merriment, always bringing in what we
required.

The heavy storm during the night had flooded our room. There was