went sadly on. When we had all passed by, the crows and the vultures which ceaselessly wheeled above us swooped down on these wretches, who no doubt had enough life left in
them to feel the talons that tore them.
The north winds made Father Gabet’s illness much worse. Each day his state became more alarming. He was too weak to walk and therefore unable to keep warm through exercise; his hands and
his face were frozen; his lips were already blue, and his eyes dead; then he became too weak to stay in the saddle. All we could do was wrap him in blankets, tie him like a parcel on to a camel and
put our trust in God.
One day when we were winding our way along a valley, our hearts full of sad thoughts, we suddenly saw two horsemen appear on the ridge of one of the surrounding mountains. At this period we were
in company with a small group of Tibetan merchants who, like us, had let the main body of the caravan go ahead, in order not to exhaust their camels by keeping up too quick a pace. “Tsong
Kaba!” cried the Tibetans. “There are horsemen over there; but we are in deserted country where there are no herdsmen.” Hardly were these words out before we began to see other
horsemen appearing at various points: and when we saw them bearing down on us at speed all together we could not suppress a tremor of fear. What could these horsemen be up to in this uninhabited
region, and what did they want of us? We were soon convinced that we had fallen into the hands of brigands. Their appearance did nothing to reassure us: each had a slung rifle, and two sabres one
on either side of his belt; they had long black hair down to their shoulders, their eyes flashed and each man wore a wolfs skin on his head. We were surrounded by twenty-seven of these alarming
characters, and there were only eighteen of us, by no means all of whom were experienced warriors. Both sides dismounted, and a courageous Tibetan from our party went forward to parley with the
brigand chief, distinguishable by two little red flags fluttering behind his saddle. After a long and animated conversation the Kolo chieftain said, “Who is that man?” pointing at
Father Gabet, who, tied on his camel, was the only one who had not dismounted.
“He is a great Lama from the Western Heavens, and the power of his prayers is infinite,” replied the Tibetan merchant. The Kolo raised his two joined hands to his forehead and gazed
at Father Gabet who, with his frozen face and his bizarre cocoon of motley-coloured blankets, looked not unlike one of those terrifying idols in a pagan temple. After a moment’s contemplation
of the famous Lama from the Western Heavens, the brigand spoke a few words in a low voice to the Tibetan merchant; then, with a sign to his companions, he and the rest mounted and galloped off over
the mountains.
“We’ll go no further,” said the Tibetan merchant, “let’s camp here; the Kolo are brigands, but they are great-hearted and generous; when they see that we are not
afraid to stay here, where we are in their hands, they will not attack us. And also, I think that they have considerable respect for the power of the Lamas of the Western Heavens.” So,
following his advice, we all set about pitching camp.
The tents were hardly up when the Kolo reappeared on the skyline and galloped towards us at their usual speed. The chief alone came into our camp; the others waited a little outside. He
addressed the Tibetan he had spoken to before.
“I have come,” he said, “for an explanation of something that I do not understand. You are aware that our camp is over that mountain, and yet you dare to pitch your tents here,
quite close. How many men have you in your party?”
“We are only eighteen; and you, I think, are twenty-seven. But men of courage never take flight.”
“So you want to fight?”
“If there were not a number of sick amongst us, I would answer ‘Yes’, for I have met the Kolo face to face before.”
“You have
them to feel the talons that tore them.
The north winds made Father Gabet’s illness much worse. Each day his state became more alarming. He was too weak to walk and therefore unable to keep warm through exercise; his hands and
his face were frozen; his lips were already blue, and his eyes dead; then he became too weak to stay in the saddle. All we could do was wrap him in blankets, tie him like a parcel on to a camel and
put our trust in God.
One day when we were winding our way along a valley, our hearts full of sad thoughts, we suddenly saw two horsemen appear on the ridge of one of the surrounding mountains. At this period we were
in company with a small group of Tibetan merchants who, like us, had let the main body of the caravan go ahead, in order not to exhaust their camels by keeping up too quick a pace. “Tsong
Kaba!” cried the Tibetans. “There are horsemen over there; but we are in deserted country where there are no herdsmen.” Hardly were these words out before we began to see other
horsemen appearing at various points: and when we saw them bearing down on us at speed all together we could not suppress a tremor of fear. What could these horsemen be up to in this uninhabited
region, and what did they want of us? We were soon convinced that we had fallen into the hands of brigands. Their appearance did nothing to reassure us: each had a slung rifle, and two sabres one
on either side of his belt; they had long black hair down to their shoulders, their eyes flashed and each man wore a wolfs skin on his head. We were surrounded by twenty-seven of these alarming
characters, and there were only eighteen of us, by no means all of whom were experienced warriors. Both sides dismounted, and a courageous Tibetan from our party went forward to parley with the
brigand chief, distinguishable by two little red flags fluttering behind his saddle. After a long and animated conversation the Kolo chieftain said, “Who is that man?” pointing at
Father Gabet, who, tied on his camel, was the only one who had not dismounted.
“He is a great Lama from the Western Heavens, and the power of his prayers is infinite,” replied the Tibetan merchant. The Kolo raised his two joined hands to his forehead and gazed
at Father Gabet who, with his frozen face and his bizarre cocoon of motley-coloured blankets, looked not unlike one of those terrifying idols in a pagan temple. After a moment’s contemplation
of the famous Lama from the Western Heavens, the brigand spoke a few words in a low voice to the Tibetan merchant; then, with a sign to his companions, he and the rest mounted and galloped off over
the mountains.
“We’ll go no further,” said the Tibetan merchant, “let’s camp here; the Kolo are brigands, but they are great-hearted and generous; when they see that we are not
afraid to stay here, where we are in their hands, they will not attack us. And also, I think that they have considerable respect for the power of the Lamas of the Western Heavens.” So,
following his advice, we all set about pitching camp.
The tents were hardly up when the Kolo reappeared on the skyline and galloped towards us at their usual speed. The chief alone came into our camp; the others waited a little outside. He
addressed the Tibetan he had spoken to before.
“I have come,” he said, “for an explanation of something that I do not understand. You are aware that our camp is over that mountain, and yet you dare to pitch your tents here,
quite close. How many men have you in your party?”
“We are only eighteen; and you, I think, are twenty-seven. But men of courage never take flight.”
“So you want to fight?”
“If there were not a number of sick amongst us, I would answer ‘Yes’, for I have met the Kolo face to face before.”
“You have
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