oice, he ordered that I should again
be conveyed inside the mud house.

A few moments later he came in and closed the door after him, having
first cleared the room of all the people who were in it. Tibetan
structures of this kind have a square aperture in the ceiling by which
they are ventilated and lighted.

The Rupun laid his forehead upon mine in sign of compassion, and then
sadly shook his head.

"There is no more hope," he whispered; "your head will be cut off
to-night. The Lamas are bad. My heart is aching. You are like my
brother, and I am grieved...."

The good old man tried not to let me see his emotion, and made signs
that he could stay no longer, lest he should be accused of being my
friend.

The mob again entered the room. I was once more dragged out into the
open by the Lamas and soldiers. Some discussion followed as to who
should keep the key of my handcuffs, and eventually it was handed over
to one of the officers, who mounted his pony and rode away at a great
speed in the direction of Lhassa.

Just then I heard the voice of Chanden Sing calling to me in a weak,
agonized tone:

"_Hazur, hazur, hum murgiaega!_" (Sir, sir, I am dying!) Turning my head
in the direction from which these painful sounds came, I perceived my
faithful servant with his hands bound behind his back, dragging himself
on his stomach toward the door of one of the other rooms of the mud
house. His poor face was hardly recognizable, it bore the traces of such
awful suffering.

I could stand no more. Pushing my guards aside with my shoulders, I
endeavored to get to the poor wretch, and had nearly reached him when
soldiers sprang upon me, grappled me, and lifting me bodily off my feet,
threw me on the back of a pony.

I now feared the worst. I tried to encourage my brave servant by
shouting to him that I was being taken to Taklakot, and that he would be
brought after me the following day. He had exhausted his last atom of
strength in creeping to the door. He was roughly seized, and brutally
hurled back into the room of the mud house, so that we could not
exchange a word more. Mansing, the coolie, was placed, with his arms
pinioned, on a bare-back pony.

The saddle of the pony I had been thrown upon is worthy of description.
It was in reality the wooden frame of a very high-backed saddle, like a
Mexican saddle. From the highest point of the back five or six sharp
iron spikes stuck out horizontally. As I sat on this implement o