I WAS examining a young woman who had badly injured and partly fractured a central vertebra of the spine, when Dr. Wilson turned up and gave the poor wretch the little relief possible in her condition, for which she had hoped in vain from me. He was welcome to me for many reasons besides the pleasure of being in his company. He had offered to join my expedition for a few marches into Tibet, and I was glad indeed to have him with me. We pushed on as soon as possible over the road between Nabi and Kuti, which I have already described. Our journey was quite uneventful, and the snow-bridges and snow-fields, so troublesome when I had first taken this road, had melted and altogether disappeared. Even at Nabi little happened. But I must just mention the following incident as illustrative of the curious suspicion and dislike I found everywhere of the photographic apparatus I carried with me. I was on the point of leaving the place when a handsome Tibetan woman, whom I had not previously noticed, accosted me with hysterical sobs--inarticulate, but conveying a very clear impression of suffering. "You have killed my child, and now you will kill my husband," she complained, when she was able to talk; and I then discovered that I had on my previous visit to Nabi taken a snap-shot at a child perched on the top of a very heavy load that happened to be carried on the woman's back through my camp, and that when she complained I had appeased her, in the usual way, with a coin. She had conveyed her load to Kuti, and had slipped, on her way back, with her child--at a spot not far from where I had had my slide--but, less fortunate than myself, had rolled right into the foaming stream. She managed to cling to the rock and was eventually saved, but the infant was washed from rock to rock by the current, and disappeared under a snow tunnel. "Oh, sahib!" cried the woman, "if you had not before we started looked at us through _the eyes_ (the twin lenses) of your _black box_ (the photographic camera), I should not have lost my baby." [Illustration: THE PHOTOGRAPH THAT CAUSED THE CHILD'S DEATH] "And how about your husband?" "Oh, you will kill him too." "But I don't know your husband. Anyhow, I promise not to look at him with these eyes." "It is not that, sahib, but he is coming with you to Tibet. He is carrying one of your loads. You will all be killed." She pointed him out to me--one of the strongest among the men I had, and the most anxious to accompany me. He was too good to lose, and I was certainly unwilling to renounce my claim to him on account of his good woman's tears. So I consoled her as best I could; promised to take good care of him, and under no circumstances to photograph him.