When we were seated, the Regent gazed at us for a long while in silence, and with a minute attention. He turned his head alternately to the right and left, and smiled at us in a half mocking, half friendly manner. This sort of pantomime appeared to us at last so droll, that we could not help laughing. “Come,” we said in French, and in an undertone, “this gentleman seems a good fellow enough; our affair will go on very well.” “Ah!” said the Regent, in a very affable tone, “what language is that you speak? I did not understand what you said?” “We spoke the language of our country.” “Well, repeat aloud what you said just now.” “We said, ‘This gentleman seems a good-natured fellow enough.’” The Regent, turning to those who were standing behind him, said, “Do you understand this language?” They all bowed together, and answered that they did not understand it. “You see, nobody here understands the language of your country. Translate your words into the Thibetian.” We said, that in the physiognomy of the First Kalon there was expressed much kindliness. “Ah! you think I have much kindliness; yet I am very ill-natured. Is it not true that I am very ill-natured?” he asked his attendants. They answered merely by smiling. “You are right,” continued the Regent; “I am kind, for kindness is the duty of a Kalon. I must be kind towards my people, and also towards strangers.” He then addressed to us a long harangue, of which we could comprehend only a few sentences. When he had finished, we told him that, not being much accustomed to the Thibetian language, we had not fully penetrated the sense of his words. The Regent signed to a Chinese, who, stepping forward, translated to us his harangue, of which the following is the outline. We had been summoned without the slightest idea of being molested. The contradictory reports that had circulated respecting us since our arrival at Lha-Ssa, had induced the Regent to question us himself, in order to know where we came from. “We are from the western sky,” we said to the Regent. “From Calcutta?” “No; our country is called France.” “You are, doubtless, Peling?” “No, we are Frenchmen.” “Can you write?” “Better than speak.” The Regent, turning round, addressed some words to a Lama, who disappearing, returned in a moment with paper, ink, and a bamboo point. “Here is paper,” said the Regent; “write something.” “In what language—in Thibetian?” “No, write some letters in your own country’s language.” One of us took the paper on his knees, and wrote this sentence: “What avails it to man to conquer the whole world, if he lose his soul?” “Ah, here are characters of your country! I never saw any like them; and what is the meaning of that?” We wrote the translation in Thibetian, Tartar, and Chinese, and handed it to him. “I have not been deceived,” he said; “you are men of great knowledge. You can write in all languages, and you express thoughts as