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0219 Tibet and Turkestan : vol.1
Tibet and Turkestan : vol.1 / Page 219 (Grayscale High Resolution Image)

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doi: 10.20676/00000231
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the serene presence of the Buddha, where he stood,
carved in the living rock, as if the impersonated
Earth should to her toiling children say: "Peace—
let the dewdrop to the ocean fall."
Just a moment's meditation, then we cantered on,
out of Lamaism, and slept in another world, a pukka
Mohammedan village. Pilgrims are met in the fine
feathers of new preparation; they have but yester-
day bade good-bye to homes which shall not see
them until they return, glad and crowned with the
green turban of the Hadji. A dozen of them were
sheltered one night by the same roof under which
we had found place for our bedding. When the
waking hour had come, I lay awhile amazed, sor-
rowful, hearing from the neighbouring sleeping-
rooms such groans and cries as we give to our
dearest dead. Alas! has misfortune already joined
their caravan? Has Death so soon struck at those
who go gladly to meet him, but who would first win
the Prophet's smile? Perhaps I may serve them in
their sudden distress, perhaps the loved one is not
yet dead, and even that minimum of European
medical science which is mine may happily win in
the struggle with disease. Achbar, lethargic with
cold and sleep, is called—sympathetic messages are
carefully set forth. Unmoved by the wailing, he
slowly answers, "That is prayer." Yes, but we
must try to help. "They cry for Ali."
Ah! now my heart is relieved. He whom they
mourn died thirteen centuries ago. His name was
Ali, and he was Mohammed's nephew. Many
people thought him a sort of prophet on his own
account and that he should reign as Caliph. Others