ngling from his shaven head. He
grasped us warmly by the hand as we came dripping out of the water, while
all the time his benevolent countenance fairly beamed with joy. "I am glad
to see you, gentlemen," he said. "I was afraid you would be taken sick on
the road ever since I heard you had started across China. I just got the
news five minutes ago that you were at Kiayu-kuan, and immediately came
out with these two horses to bring you across the river, which I feared
would be too deep and swift for you. Mount your ponies, and we will ride
into the city together."

[Illustration: RIDING BY THE GREAT WALL ON THE ROAD TO SU-CHOU.]

It was some time before the idea flashed across our minds that this might
indeed be the mysterious Ling Darin about whom we had heard so much.
"Yes," said he, "that is what I am called here, but my real name is
Splingard." He then went on to tell us that he was a Belgian by birth;
that he had traveled extensively through China, as the companion of Baron
Richthofen, and had thus become so thoroughly acquainted with the country
and its people that on his return to the coast he had been offered by the
Chinese government the position of custom mandarin at Su-chou, a position
just then established for the levying of duty on the Russian goods passing
in through the northwest provinces; that he had adopted the Chinese dress
and mode of living, and had even married, many years ago, a Chinese girl
educated at the Catholic schools in Tientsin. We were so absorbed in this
romantic history that we scarcely noticed the crowds that lined the
streets leading to the Ling Darin's palace, until the boom of a cannon
recalled us to our situation. From the smile on the jolly face beside us,
we knew at once whom we could hold responsible for this reception. The
palace gates were now thrown open by a host of servants, and in our rags
and tatters we rolled at once from the hardships of the inhospitable
desert into the lap of luxury.

A surplus is not always so easily disposed of as a deficit--at least we
were inclined to think so in the case of our Su-chou diet. The Ling
Darin's table, which, for the exceptional occasion, was set in the foreign
fashion with knives and forks, fairly teemed with abundance and variety.
There was even butter, made from the milk of the Tibetan yak, and
condensed milk for our coffee, the first we had tasted since leaving
Turkey, more than a year before. The Ling Darin informed us that a c