On her arrival at the monastery she learned from her garrulous nun-attendant that the Amban had been summoned to Pekin, where a revolution had taken place and his friends there hoped to make him President, which he regarded as a step towards the Imperial throne.  The monks of the monastery were his faithful allies on account of his relationship to the powerful Abbott of the Yellow Lama Temple in the Chinese capital.  They had agreed to guard his prisoner, if his men succeeded in capturing her, until he returned or sent for her.

At first the girl, relieved of the dread of falling at once into his hands, lived in the hope of a speedy rescue.  It was unfortunate, she thought, that Colonel Dermot, with his extraordinary knowledge of and influence over the Bhutanese, had left India.  But even without him the power of the British Empire would be set at once in motion to avenge this outrage on an Englishwoman.  Dermot’s understudy, the Assistant Political Officer, faithless lover though he was, would do all he could to save her.  Assuredly she would not have long to wait.

But as the days dragged by and she still remained a prisoner her heart sank.  She needed all her courage not to lose hope and give way to despair.  For she had always hanging over her the dread of Yuan Shi Hung’s return.  But she had resolved to kill herself rather than fall into his hands, and for that purpose had bribed her cheery, good-natured attendant to procure a dagger for her.  She pretended that she wanted it as a protection in the lamasery, for the door of her apartments was without a fastening.  Even on the outside there was neither lock nor bolt, for escape was considered impossible for her.  If she got out of the monastery she would be captured at once in the town.

She was not interfered with and saw no one but her nun.  Once or twice she ventured to creep down to the great temple of the monastery, drawn by curiosity and the sound of harmonious Buddhist chants intoned by the lamaic choir.  But for her anxiety about her father and her dread of the Amban’s return her worst trial would have been the monotony of her captivity, were it not that the memory of Wargrave and her unhappy love caused her many a sleepless night.

With nothing to occupy her mind she hailed the festival of the Devil Dance as a welcome distraction.  Not even the impertinent curiosity of the spectators could drive her from her balcony.  She followed the many phases with interest, although she could not understand the meaning of them.  For the performance was a curious mixture of religion and blasphemous mockery, of horse-play and coarse humour as well as a strange impressiveness.  A comic interlude would follow the most solemn act.  Troops of devils burlesqued the sacred rites of the faith, and bands of comic masks filled the arena at times and delighted the audience by playing practical jokes on the spectators and each other.  The solitary white woman attracted