interested them.  Regarding us as promising neophytes, they were anxious now that we should go on to Lhasa, in order to receive full instruction in the faith from the chief fountainhead, the Grand Lama in person.  To this we demurred.  Mr. Landor’s experiences did not encourage us to follow his lead.  The monks, for their part, could not understand our reluctance.  They thought that every well-intentioned convert must wish to make the pilgrimage to Lhasa, the Mecca of their creed.  Our hesitation threw some doubt on the reality of our conversion.  A proselyte, above all men, should never be lukewarm.  They expected us to embrace the opportunity with fervour.  We might be massacred on the way, to be sure; but what did that matter?  We should be dying for the faith, and ought to be charmed at so splendid a prospect.

On the day-week after our arrival time chief Lama came to me at nightfall.  His face was serious.  He spoke to me through our accredited interpreter, the cook.  “Priest-sahib say, very important; the sahib and mem-sahibs must go away from here before sun get up to-morrow morning.”

“Why so?” I asked, as astonished as I was pleased.

“Priest-sahib say, he like you very much; oh, very, very much; no want to see village people kill you.”

“Kill us!  But I thought they believed we were saints!”

“Priest say, that just it; too much saint altogether.  People hereabout all telling that the sahib and the mem-sahibs very great saints; much holy, like Buddha.  Make picture; work miracles.  People think, if them kill you, and have your tomb here, very holy place; very great Karma; very good for trade; plenty Tibetan man hear you holy men, come here on pilgrimage.  Pilgrimage make fair, make market, very good for village.  So people want to kill you, build shrine over your body.”

This was a view of the advantages of sanctity which had never before struck me.  Now, I had not been eager even for the distinction of being a Christian martyr; as to being a Buddhist martyr, that was quite out of the question.  “Then what does the Lama advise us to do?” I asked.

“Priest-sahib say he love you; no want to see village people kill you.  He give you guide—­very good guide—­know mountains well; take you back straight to Maharajah’s country.”

“Not Ram Das?” I asked, suspiciously.

“No, not Ram Das.  Very good man—­Tibetan.”

I saw at once this was a genuine crisis.  All was hastily arranged.  I went in and told Hilda and Lady Meadowcroft.  Our spoilt child cried a little, of course, at the idea of being enshrined; but on the whole behaved admirably.  At early dawn next morning, before the village was awake, we crept with stealthy steps out of the monastery, whose inmates were friendly.  Our new guide accompanied us.  We avoided the village, on whose outskirts the lamasery lay, and made straight for the valley.  By six o’clock, we were well out of sight of the clustered houses and the pyramidal spires.  But I did not breathe freely till late in the afternoon, when we found ourselves once more under British protection in the first hamlet of the Maharajah’s territory.