"Kill him, kill him!" shouted the mob once more, urging on the executioner, who seemed quite reluctant to come forward. I seized this moment to say that they might kill me if they wished, but that, if I died to-day, they would all die to-morrow--an undeniable fact, for we are all bound to die some day. This seemed to cool them for a moment; but the excitement in the crowd was too great, and at last they succeeded in working the Pombo into a passion. His face became quite unrecognizable, such was his excitement. He behaved like a madman. At this point a Lama approached and slipped something into the mouth of the executioner, who foamed at the lips. A Lama held his sword, while he turned up one sleeve of his coat to have his arm free, and the Lamas turned up the other for him. Then he strode toward me with slow, ponderous steps, swinging the shiny, sharp blade from side to side, with his bare arms outstretched. The man Nerba, who was still holding me by the hair, was told to make me bend my neck. I resisted with what little strength I had left, determined to keep my head erect and my forehead high. They might kill me, true enough, they might hack me to pieces if they chose, but never until I had lost my last atom of strength would these ruffians make me stoop before them. I might perish, but it would be looking down upon the Pombo and his countrymen. The executioner, now close to me, held the sword with his nervous hands, lifting it high above his shoulder. He then brought it down to my neck, which he touched with the blade, to measure the distance as it were, for a clean, effective stroke. Then, drawing back a step, he quickly raised the sword again and struck a blow at me with all his might. The sword passed unpleasantly close to my neck under my chin, but did not touch me. I did not flinch nor speak. My indifference impressed him almost to the point of frightening him. He seemed disinclined to continue his diabolical performance; but the impatience and turbulence of the crowd were at their highest. The Lamas nearer him gesticulated like madmen and urged him on again. Apparently against his will, the executioner went through the same performance on the other side of my head. This time the blade passed so near that the point cannot have been more than half an inch or so from my neck. Everything pointed toward my end being near; but, strange to say, I had a feeling all the time that something would happen and my life would be spared. As the chances of escape, however, seemed very meagre, I felt sorry that I should have to die without seeing my dear parents and relatives again. They would probably never know where and how I had died. After my trying experiences, sufferings, and excitement since entering Tibet, I did not, perhaps, realize my peril so much as I should have done had I, for instance, been dragged from my comfortable London quarters direct on to the execution-ground.