t there was the seduction of the snows. I had gained an upper story,
but I must climb on to the roof. Every morning the Sun-god threw open
the magnificent portals of his domain, dazzling rifts and spires, black
cliffs glacier-bitten, the flawless vaulted roof of Kinchenjunga--

'Myriads of topaz lights and jacinth work
Of subtlest jewellery.'

One morning the roof of the Sun-god's palace was clear and cloudless,
but about its base hung little clouds of snow-dust, as though the
Olympians had been holding tourney, and the dust had risen in the tracks
of their chariots. All this was seen over galvanized iron roofs. The
Sun-god had thrown open his palace, and we were playing pitch and toss
on the steps. While I was so engrossed I looked up. Columns of white
cloud were rising to obscure the entrance. Then a sudden shaft of
sunlight broke the fumes. There was a vivid flash, a dazzle of
jewel-work, and the portals closed. I was covered with bashfulness and
shame. It was a direct invitation. I made some excuse to my companion,
said I had an engagement, went straight to my rooms, and packed.

But while the aroma of my carriers insulted the pure air, and their
chatter over their tawdry spoil profaned the silent precincts of
Chumulari, their mountain goddess, I thought more of the disenchantment
of that earlier visit. I remembered sitting on a hillside near a
lamasery, which was surrounded by a small village of Lamas' houses.
Outside the temple a priest was operating on a yak for vaccine. He had
bored a large hole in the shoulder, into which he alternately buried his
forearm and squirted hot water copiously. A hideous yellow trickle
beneath indicated that the poor beast was entirely perforated. A crowd
of admiring little boys and girls looked on with relish. The smell of
the poor yak was distressing, but the smell of the Lama was worse. I
turned away in disgust--turned my back contentedly and without regret on
the mysterious land and the road to the Forbidden City. At that moment,
if the Dalai Lama himself had sent me a chaise with a dozen outriders
and implored me to come, I would not have visited him, not for a
thousand yaks. The scales of vagabondage fell from my eyes; the spirit
of unrest died within me. I had a longing for fragrant soap, snowy white
linen, fresh-complexioned ladies and clean-shaven, well-groomed men.

And here again I was returning very slowly to civilization; but I was
coming back with half an a