The tents were scarcely set up, when the Kolo reappeared on the crest of the mountain, and once more galloped down upon us with their habitual impetuosity. The chief alone entered the encampment, his men awaiting him at a short distance outside. The Kolo addressed the Thibetian who had previously conversed with him. “I have come,” said he, “for an explanation of a point that I don’t at all understand. You know that we are encamped on the other side of the mountain, yet you venture to set up your tents here, close by us. How many men, then, have you in your company?” “We are only eighteen; you, I believe, are twenty-seven in number; but brave men never run away.” “You’ll fight, then?” “If there were not several invalids amongst us, I would answer, Yes; for I have already shown the Kolo that I am not afraid of them.” “Have you fought with the Kolo? When was it? What’s your name?” “It’s five years ago, at the affair of the Tchanak-Kampo, and here’s a little reminiscence of it;” and, throwing back the sleeve of his right arm, he showed the cicatrice of a great sabre cut. The brigand laughed, and again requested his interlocutor’s name. “I am called Rala-Tchembe,” said the merchant; “you ought to know the name.” “Yes, all the Kolos know it; it is the name of a brave man.” So saying, he dismounted, and taking a sabre from his girdle, presented it to the Thibetian. “Here,” said he, “accept this sabre; ’tis the best I have; we have fought one another before; in future, when we meet, it shall be as brothers.” The Thibetian received the brigand’s present, and gave him, in return, a handsome bow and quiver which he had bought at Peking.