As we lay by the fire, the Soyot came over to me and said:  “Noyon, come with me to the obo.  I want to show you something.”

We went there and began to ascend the mountain.  At the bottom of a very steep slope was laid up a large pile of stones and tree trunks, making a cone of some three metres in height.  These obo are the Lamaite sacred signs set up at dangerous places, the altars to the bad demons, rulers of these places.  Passing Soyots and Mongols pay tribute to the spirits by hanging on the branches of the trees in the obo hatyk, long streamers of blue silk, shreds torn from the lining of their coats or simply tufts of hair cut from their horses’ manes; or by placing on the stones lumps of meat or cups of tea and salt.

“Look at it,” said the Soyot.  “The hatyks are torn off.  The demons are angry, they will not allow us to pass, Noyon. . . .”

He caught my hand and with supplicating voice whispered:  “Let us go back, Noyon; let us!  The demons do not wish us to pass their mountains.  For twenty years no one has dared to pass these mountains and all bold men who have tried have perished here.  The demons fell upon them with snowstorm and cold.  Look!  It is beginning already. . . .  Go back to our Noyon, wait for the warmer days and then. . . .”

I did not listen further to the Soyot but turned back to the fire, which I could hardly see through the blinding snow.  Fearing our guide might run away, I ordered a sentry to be stationed for the night to watch him.  Later in the night I was awakened by the sentry, who said to me:  “Maybe I am mistaken, but I think I heard a rifle.”

What could I say to it?  Maybe some stragglers like ourselves were giving a sign of their whereabouts to their lost companions, or perhaps the sentry had mistaken for a rifle shot the sound of some falling rock or frozen ice and snow.  Soon I fell asleep again and suddenly saw in a dream a very clear vision.  Out on the plain, blanketed deep with snow, was moving a line of riders.  They were our pack horses, our Kalmuck and the funny pied horse with the Roman nose.  I saw us descending from this snowy plateau into a fold in the mountains.  Here some larch trees were growing, close to which gurgled a small, open brook.  Afterwards I noticed a fire burning among the trees and then woke up.

It grew light.  I shook up the others and asked them to prepare quickly so as not to lose time in getting under way.  The storm was raging.  The snow blinded us and blotted out all traces of the road.  The cold also became more intense.  At last we were in the saddles.  The Soyot went ahead trying to make out the trail.  As we worked higher the guide less seldom lost the way.  Frequently we fell into deep holes covered with snow; we scrambled up over slippery rocks.  At last the Soyot swung his horse round and, coming up to me, announced very positively:  “I do not want to die with you and I will not go further.”