stream meanders through a narrow ravine: during the summer it is miry and slippery, and during the winter it is covered with ice and snow. Travellers, provided with sticks, pass it, one after the other, like a file of fish. It is the most difficult passage on the whole way to Lha-Ssa.” On reading this last sentence, the book fell from our hands. After a moment’s stupor, we resumed the book, in order to assure our selves that we had read correctly. We were right; there it was written: “It is the most difficult passage on all the way to Lha-Ssa.” The prospect of having to pursue a still more arduous route than that of Alan-To was enough to stagnate the blood in our veins. “The ambassador Ki-Chan,” said we to ourselves, “is evidently a cowardly assassin. Not having dared to kill us at Lha-Ssa, he has sent us to die in the midst of the snow.” This fit of depression lasted but for an instant; God, in his goodness, gradually restored to us all our energies, and we rose to take part in the discussion which was proceeding around us, and the result of which was that, on the morrow, a few men of the caravan should set out before daybreak to sound the depth of the snow, and to assure themselves of the real state of the case. Towards midday the scouts returned, and announced that Mount Tanda was impassable. These tidings distressed all of us. We ourselves, although in no great hurry, were annoyed. The weather was beautiful, and we apprehended that if we did not profit by it, we should soon have fresh snow, and thus see our departure indefinitely adjourned. Whilst we were anxiously deliberating what we should do, the Dheba of the place came to relieve us from our embarrassment. He proposed to send a herd of oxen to trample down, for two days, the snow that encumbered the path up the mountain. “With this precaution,” said he, “if the weather continues fine, you may, without fear, depart on your journey.” The proposition of the Dheba was eagerly and gratefully adopted.