It was, I think, between eight and nine A.M.  I was following the road to the town of Sikkhim, whence, I was assured by the people I met on the road, I could cross over to Tibet easily in my pilgrim’s garb, when I suddenly saw a solitary horseman galloping towards me from the opposite direction.  From his tall stature and skill in horsemanship, I thought he was some military officer of the Sikkhim Rajah.  Now, I thought, I am caught!  He will ask me for my pass and what business I have in the independent territory of Sikkhim, and, perhaps, have me arrested and sent back, if not worse.  But, as he approached me, he reined up.  I looked at and recognized him instantly....  I was in the awful presence of him, of the same Mahatma, my own revered Guru, whom I had seen before in his astral body on the balcony of the Theosophical Headquarters.  It was he, the “Himalayan Brother” of the ever-memorable night of December last, who had so kindly dropped a letter in answer to one I had given but an hour or so before in a sealed envelope to Madame Blavatsky, whom I had never lost sight of for one moment during the interval.  The very same instant saw me prostrated on the ground at his feet.  I arose at his command, and, leisurely looking into his face, forgot myself entirely in the contemplation of the image I knew so well, having seen his portrait (the one in Colonel Olcott’s possession) times out of number.  I knew not what to say:  joy and reverence tied my tongue.  The majesty of his countenance, which seemed to me to be the impersonation of power and thought, held me rapt in awe.  I was at last face to face with “the Mahatma of the Himavat,” and he was no myth, no “creation of the imagination of a medium,” as some sceptics had suggested.  It was no dream of the night; it was between nine and ten o’clock of the forenoon.  There was the sun shining and silently witnessing the scene from above.  I see him before me in flesh and blood, and he speaks to me in accents of kindness and gentleness.  What more could I want?  My excess of happiness made me dumb.  Nor was it until some time had elapsed that I was able to utter a few words, encouraged by his gentle tone and speech.  His complexion is not as fair as that of Mahatma Koothoomi; but never have I seen a countenance so handsome, a stature so tall and so majestic.  As in his portrait, he wears a short black beard, and long black hair hanging down to his breast; only his dress was different:  Instead of a white, loose robe he wore a yellow mantle lined with fur, and on his head, instead of the turban, a yellow Tibetan felt cap, as I have seen some Bhootanese wear in this country.  When the first moments of rapture and surprise were over, and I calmly comprehended the situation, I had a long talk with him.  He told me to go no further, for I should come to grief.  He said I should wait patiently if I wanted to become an accepted Chela; that many were those who offered themselves as candidates, but that only a very few