“All right,” I said, “but you will allow us to warm and rest ourselves a little.”

“Yes, yes!” exclaimed the hospitable Soyots, and led us into their tepees.

On our way there I took the opportunity to hand to the old Soyot a cigarette and to another a box of matches.  We were all walking along together save one Soyot who limped slowly in the rear and was holding his hand up over his nose.

“Is he ill?” I asked.

“Yes,” sadly answered the old Soyot.  “That is my son.  He has been losing blood from the nose for two days and is now quite weak.”

I stopped and called the young man to me.

“Unbutton your outer coat,” I ordered, “bare your neck and chest and turn your face up as far as you can.”  I pressed the jugular vein on both sides of his head for some minutes and said to him: 

“The blood will not flow from your nose any more.  Go into your tepee and lie down for some time.”

The “mysterious” action of my fingers created on the Soyots a strong impression.  The old Soyot with fear and reverence whispered: 

“Ta Lama, Ta Lama! (Great Doctor).”

In the yurta we were given tea while the old Soyot sat thinking deeply about something.  Afterwards he took counsel with his companions and finally announced: 

“The wife of our Prince is sick in her eyes and I think the Prince will be very glad if I lead the ‘Ta Lama’ to him.  He will not punish me, for he ordered that no ‘bad people’ should be allowed to pass; but that should not stop the ‘good people’ from coming to us.

“Do as you think best,” I replied rather indifferently.  “As a matter of fact, I know how to treat eye diseases but I would go back if you say so.”

“No, no!” the old man exclaimed with fear.  “I shall guide you myself.”

Sitting by the fire, he lighted his pipe with a flint, wiped the mouthpiece on his sleeve and offered it to me in true native hospitality.  I was “comme il faut” and smoked.  Afterwards he offered his pipe to each one of our company and received from each a cigarette, a little tobacco or some matches.  It was the seal on our friendship.  Soon in our yurta many persons piled up around us, men, women, children and dogs.  It was impossible to move.  From among them emerged a Lama with shaved face and close cropped hair, dressed in the flowing red garment of his caste.  His clothes and his expression were very different from the common mass of dirty Soyots with their queues and felt caps finished off with squirrel tails on the top.  The Lama was very kindly disposed towards us but looked ever greedily at our gold rings and watches.  I decided to exploit this avidity of the Servant of Buddha.  Supplying him with tea and dried bread, I made known to him that I was in need of horses.

“I have a horse.  Will you buy it from me?” he asked.  “But I do not accept Russian bank notes.  Let us exchange something.”