th Buddhist history and writ. The
sixth incarnation was executed by the Chinese on account of his
profligacy. The seventh was deposed by the Chinese as privy to the
murder of the regent. After the death of the eighth, of whom I can learn
nothing, it would seem that the tables were turned: the regents
systematically murdered their charge, and the crime of the seventh Dalai
Lama was visited upon four successive incarnations. The ninth, tenth,
eleventh, and twelfth all died prematurely, assassinated, it is
believed, by their regents.

There are no legends of malmsey-butts, secret smotherings, and hired
assassins. The children disappeared; they were absorbed into the
Universal Essence; they were literally too good to live. Their regents
and protectors, monks only less sacred than themselves, provided that
the spirit in its yearning for the next state should not be long
detained in its mortal husk. No questions were asked. How could the
devout trace the comings and goings of the divine Avalokita, the Lord of
Mercy and Judgment, who ordains into what heaven or hell, demon, god,
hero, mollusc, or ape, their spirits must enter, according to their
sins?

So, when we reached Lhasa the other day, and heard that the thirteenth
incarnation had fled, no one was surprised. Yet the wonder remains. A
great Prince, a god to thousands of men, has been removed from his
palace and capital, no one knows whither or when. A ruler has
disappeared who travels with every appanage of state, inspiring awe in
his prostrate servants, whose movements, one would think, were watched
and talked about more than any Sovereign's on earth. Yet fear, or
loyalty, or ignorance keeps every subject tongue-tied.

We have spies and informers everywhere, and there are men in Lhasa who
would do much to please the new conquerors of Tibet. There are also
witless men, who have eyes and ears, but, it seems, no tongues.

But so far neither avarice nor witlessness has betrayed anything. For
all we know, the Dalai Lama may be still in his palace in some hidden
chamber in the rock, or maybe he has never left his customary
apartments, and still performs his daily offices in the Potala,
confident that there at least his sanctity is inviolable by unbelievers.

The British Tommy in the meanwhile parades the streets as indifferently
as if they were the New Cut or Lambeth Palace Road. He looks up at the
Potala, and says: 'The old bloke's done a bunk. Wish we'd got 'im; we
mi