I handed him the album with my sketches of the trip and he wrote therein:  “After my death, Baron Ungern.”

“But I am older than you and I shall die before you,” I remarked.

He shut his eyes, bowed his head and whispered: 

“Oh, no!  One hundred thirty days yet and it is finished; then . . .  Nirvana!  How wearied I am with sorrow, woe and hate!”

We were silent for a long time.  I felt that I had now a mortal enemy in Colonel Sepailoff and that I should get out of Urga at the earliest possible moment.  It was two o’clock at night.  Suddenly Baron Ungern stood up.

“Let us go to the great, good Buddha,” he said with a countenance held in deep thought and with eyes aflame, his whole face contracted by a mournful, bitter smile.  He ordered the car brought.

Thus lived this camp of martyrs, refugees pursued by events to their tryst with Death, driven on by the hate and contempt of this offspring of Teutons and privateers!  And he, martyring them, knew neither day nor night of peace.  Fired by impelling, poisonous thoughts, he tormented himself with the pains of a Titan, knowing that every day in this shortening chain of one hundred thirty links brought him nearer to the precipice called “Death.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII

BEFORE THE FACE OF BUDDHA

As we came to the monastery we left the automobile and dipped into the labyrinth of narrow alleyways until at last we were before the greatest temple of Urga with the Tibetan walls and windows and its pretentious Chinese roof.  A single lantern burned at the entrance.  The heavy gate with the bronze and iron trimmings was shut.  When the General struck the big brass gong hanging by the gate, frightened monks began running up from all directions and, seeing the “General Baron,” fell to the earth in fear of raising their heads.

“Get up,” said the Baron, “and let us into the Temple!”

The inside was like that of all Lama temples, the same multi-colored flags with the prayers, symbolic signs and the images of holy saints; the big bands of silk cloth hanging from the ceiling; the images of the gods and goddesses.  On both sides of the approach to the altar were the low red benches for the Lamas and choir.  On the altar small lamps threw their rays on the gold and silver vessels and candlesticks.  Behind it hung a heavy yellow silk curtain with Tibetan inscriptions.  The Lamas drew the curtain aside.  Out of the dim light from the flickering lamps gradually appeared the great gilded statue of Buddha seated in the Golden Lotus.  The face of the god was indifferent and calm with only a soft gleam of light animating it.  On either side he was guarded by many thousands of lesser Buddhas brought by the faithful as offerings in prayer.  The Baron struck the gong to attract Great Buddha’s attention to his prayer and threw a handful of coins into the large bronze bowl.  And then this scion of crusaders who had read all the philosophers of the West, closed his eyes, placed his hands together before his face and prayed.  I noticed a black rosary on his left wrist.  He prayed about ten minutes.  Afterwards he led me to the other end of the monastery and, during our passage, said to me: