“Goodness gracious!” Lady Meadowcroft cried, clinging tight to Hilda.  “Miss Wade, this is dreadful!  Where on earth have you brought us to?”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Hilda answered, trying to soothe her, though she herself began to look a trifle anxious.  “That’s only Ram Das’s graphic way of putting things.”

We sat down on a bank of trailing club-moss by the side of the rough track, for it was nothing more, and let our guide go on to negotiate with the Lamas.  “Well, to-night, anyhow,” I exclaimed, looking up, “we shall sleep on our own mattresses with a roof over our heads.  These monks will find us quarters.  That’s always something.”

We got out our basket and made tea.  In all moments of doubt, your Englishwoman makes tea.  As Hilda said, she will boil her Etna on Vesuvius.  We waited and drank our tea; we drank our tea and waited.  A full hour passed away.  Ram Das never came back.  I began to get frightened.

At last something stirred.  A group of excited men in yellow robes issued forth from the monastery, wound their way down the hill, and approached us, shouting.  They gesticulated as they came.  I could see they looked angry.  All at once Hilda clutched my arm:  “Hubert,” she cried, in an undertone, “we are betrayed!  I see it all now.  These are Tibetans, not Nepaulese.”  She paused a second, then went on:  “I see it all—­all, all.  Our guide—­Ram Das—­he had a reason, after all, for getting us into mischief.  Sebastian must have tracked us; he was bribed by Sebastian!  It was he who recommended Ram Das to Sir Ivor!”

“Why do you think so?” I asked, low.

“Because—­look for yourself; these men who come are dressed in yellow.  That means Tibetans.  Red is the colour of the Lamas in Nepaul; yellow in Tibet and all other Buddhist countries.  I read it in the book—­The Buddhist Praying Wheel, you know.  These are Tibetan fanatics, and, as Ram Das said, they will probably cut our throats for us.”

I was thankful that Hilda’s marvellous memory gave us even that moment for preparation and facing the difficulty.  I saw in a flash that she was quite right:  we had been inveigled across the frontier.  These moutis were Tibetans—­Buddhist inquisitors—­ enemies.  Tibet is the most jealous country on earth; it allows no stranger to intrude upon its borders.  I had to meet the worst.  I stood there, a single white man, armed only with one revolver, answerable for the lives of two English ladies, and accompanied by a cringing out-caste Ghoorka cook and half-a-dozen doubtful Nepaulese bearers.  To fly was impossible.  We were fairly trapped.  There was nothing for it but to wait and put a bold face on our utter helplessness.

I turned to our spoilt child.  “Lady Meadowcroft,” I said, very seriously, “this is danger; real danger.  Now, listen to me.  You must do as you are bid.  No crying; no cowardice.  Your life and ours depend upon it.  We must none of us give way.  We must pretend to be brave.  Show one sign of fear, and these people will probably cut our throats on the spot here.”