four or five, are fed for some time, or rather crammed, with balls of
barley-meal made into a paste with it.

At Hundar, a superbly situated village, which we visited twice, we
were received at the house of Gergan the monk, who had accompanied us
throughout. He is a zemindar, and the large house in which he made
us welcome stands in his own patrimony. Everything was prepared for
us. The mud floors were swept, cotton quilts were laid down on the
balconies, blue cornflowers and marigolds, cultivated for religious
ornament, were in all the rooms, and the women were in gala dress and
loaded with coarse jewellery. Right hearty was the welcome. Mr.
Redslob loved, and therefore was loved. The Tibetans to him were not
'natives,' but brothers. He drew the best out of them. Their
superstitions and beliefs were not to him 'rubbish,' but subjects for
minute investigation and study. His courtesy to all was frank and
dignified. In his dealings he was scrupulously just. He was
intensely interested in their interests. His Tibetan scholarship and
knowledge of Tibetan sacred literature gave him almost the standing
of an abbot among them, and his medical skill and knowledge, joyfully
used for their benefit on former occasions, had won their regard. So
at Hundar, as everywhere else, the elders came out to meet us and cut
the apricot branches away on our road, and the silver horns of the
gonpo above brayed a dissonant welcome. Along the Indus valley the
servants of Englishmen beat the Tibetans, in the Shayok and Nubra
valleys the Yarkand traders beat and cheat them, and the women are
shy with strangers, but at Hundar they were frank and friendly with
me, saying, as many others had said, 'We will trust any one who comes
with the missionary.'

Gergan's home was typical of the dwellings of the richer cultivators