I asked them to take me to Domojiroff.  Through the dark I saw four big yurtas and two Mongol sentinels with Russian rifles.  We entered the Russian “Noyon’s” tent.  A very strange picture was presented to our eyes.  In the middle of the yurta the brazier was burning.  In the usual place for the altar stood a throne, on which the tall, thin, grey-haired Colonel Domojiroff was seated.  He was only in his undergarments and stockings, was evidently a little drunk and was telling stories.  Around the brazier lay twelve young men in various picturesque poses.  My officer companion reported to Domojiroff about the events in Uliassutai and during the conversation I asked Domojiroff where his detachment was encamped.  He laughed and answered, with a sweep of his hand:  “This is my detachment.”  I pointed out to him that the form of his orders to us in Uliassutai had led us to believe that he must have a large company with him.  Then I informed him that Lt.-Colonel Michailoff was preparing to cross swords with the Bolshevik force approaching Uliassutai.

“What?” he exclaimed with fear and confusion, “the Reds?”

We spent the night in his yurta and, when I was ready to lie down, my officer whispered to me: 

“Be sure to keep your revolver handy,” to which I laughed and said: 

“But we are in the center of a White detachment and therefore in perfect safety!”

“Uh-huh!” answered my officer and finished the response with one eye closed.

The next day I invited Domojiroff to walk with me over the plain, when I talked very frankly with him about what had been happening.  He and Hun Boldon had received orders from Baron Ungern simply to get into touch with General Bakitch, but instead they began pillaging Chinese firms along the route and he had made up his mind to become a great conqueror.  On the way he had run across some of the officers who deserted Colonel Kazagrandi and formed his present band.  I succeeded in persuading Domojiroff to arrange matters peacefully with Chultun Beyli and not to violate the treaty.  He immediately went ahead to the monastery.  As I returned, I met a tall Mongol with a ferocious face, dressed in a blue silk outercoat—­it was Hun Boldon.  He introduced himself and spoke with me in Russian.  I had only time to take off my coat in the tent of Domojiroff when a Mongol came running to invite me to the yurta of Hun Boldon.  The Prince lived just beside me in a splendid blue yurta.  Knowing the Mongolian custom, I jumped into the saddle and rode the ten paces to his door.  Hun Boldon received me with coldness and pride.

“Who is he?” he inquired of the interpreter, pointing to me with his finger.

I understood his desire to offend me and I answered in the same manner, thrusting out my finger toward him and turning to the interpreter with the same question in a slightly more unpleasant tone: 

“Who is he?  High Prince and warrior or shepherd and brute?”