nightfall. We were off at sunrise,
and soon we entered a beautiful valley flanked on either hand by
respectable hills, their upper slopes clothed with real forests of pine.
These were the first trees I had seen, except three dwarfed elms in
Gobi, since I left behind the poplars and willows of China. Yurts,
herds, men were everywhere. Two Chinese that we met on the road stopped
to warn us that the river that flowed below Urga was very high and
rising fast, hundreds of carts were waiting until the water went down,
and they doubted if we could get across. This was not encouraging, but
we pushed on. It was plain that we were nearing the capital, for the
scene grew more and more lively. At first I thought it must be a
holiday; but, no, it was just the ordinary day's work, but all so
picturesque, so full of _elan_ and colour, that it was more like a play
than real life.

Now a drove of beautiful horses dashed across the road, the herdsmen in
full cry after them. Then we passed a train of camels, guided by two
women mounted on little ponies. They had tied their babies to the
camels' packs, and seemed to have no difficulty in managing their
wayward beasts. Here a flock of sheep grazed peacefully in the deep
green meadows beside the trail, undisturbed by a group of Mongols
galloping townwards, lasso poles in hand, as though charging. Two women
in the charge of a yellow lama trotted sedately along, their quaint
headdresses flapping as they rode. Then we overtook three camels led by
one man on a pony and prodded along by another, actually cantering,--I
felt I must hasten, too,--but unhurried, undisturbed, scarcely making
room for an official and his gay retinue galloping towards the capital,
a bullock caravan from Kalgan in charge of half a dozen blue-coated
Celestials moved sedately along, slow, persistent, sure to gain the goal
in good time,--that was China all over.

And then the valley opened into a wide plain seamed by many rivers, and
there before us, on the high right bank of the Tola and facing Bogda
Ola, the Holy Mountain, lay Urga the Sacred, second to Lhasa only in the
Buddhist world.

But we were not there yet; between us and our goal flowed the rivers
that criss-cross the valley, and the long lines of carts and horses and
camels and bullocks crowded on the banks bore out the tale of the
Chinese. We push on to the first ford; the river, brimming full, whirls
along at a great rate, but a few carts are venturing in,