“You see,” began the host, “after your departure a soldier came from Sepailoff and took your luggage, saying that you had sent him for it; but we knew what it meant--that they would first search it and afterwards. . . .” I at once understood the danger. Sepailoff could place anything he wanted in my luggage and afterwards accuse me. My old friend, the agronome, and I started at once for Sepailoff’s, where I left him at the door while I went in and was met by the same soldier who had brought the supper to us. Sepailoff received me immediately. In answer to my protest he said that it was a mistake and, asking me to wait for a moment, went out. I waited five, ten, fifteen minutes but nobody came. I knocked on the door but no one answered me. Then I decided to go to Baron Ungern and started for the exit. The door was locked. Then I tried the other door and found that also locked. I had been trapped! I wanted at once to whistle to my friend but just then noticed a telephone on the wall and called up Baron Ungern. In a few minutes he appeared together with Sepailoff. “What is this?” he asked Sepailoff in a severe, threatening voice; and, without waiting for an answer, struck him a blow with his tashur that sent him to the floor. We went out and the General ordered my luggage produced. Then he brought me to his own yurta. “Live here, now,” he said. “I am very glad of this accident,” he remarked with a smile, “for now I can say all that I want to.” This drew from me the question: “May I describe all that I have heard and seen here?” He thought a moment before replying: “Give me your notebook.” I handed him the album with my sketches of the trip and he wrote therein: “After my death, Baron Ungern.” “But I am older than you and I shall die before you,” I remarked. He shut his eyes, bowed his head and whispered: “Oh, no! One hundred thirty days yet and it is finished; then . . . Nirvana! How wearied I am with sorrow, woe and hate!” We were silent for a long time. I felt that I had now a mortal enemy in Colonel Sepailoff and that I should get out of Urga at the earliest possible moment. It was two o’clock at night. Suddenly Baron Ungern stood up. “Let us go to the great, good Buddha,” he said with a countenance held in deep thought and with eyes aflame, his whole face contracted by a mournful, bitter smile. He ordered the car brought. Thus lived this camp of martyrs, refugees pursued by events to their tryst with Death, driven on by the hate and contempt of this offspring of Teutons and privateers! And he, martyring them, knew neither day nor night of peace. Fired by impelling, poisonous thoughts, he tormented himself with the pains of a Titan, knowing that every day in this shortening chain of one hundred thirty links brought him nearer to the precipice called “Death.” CHAPTER XXXVIII BEFORE THE FACE OF BUDDHA