But was this my temple?
My heart sank, as for a moment I realised what a foolish thing I had done. I had supposed, after my usual fashion, that everything would go smoothly for me, and now at the very outset, things were going wrong, and I knew I was helpless. Two men in blue, of the coolie class, old, and very, very dirty, looked at me, and talked unintelligibly to my guide, and he, very intelligibly, demanded his cumshaw, but there was no sign of my possessions.
For the moment I feared, feared greatly, I was entirely alone, what might not happen to me? I might not even have been brought to the right temple, for all I knew. In bridge, when doubtful they say play to win, so I decided I must act as if everything was all right, and I paid my guide his cumshaw, saw him go, and not quite as happy as I should have liked to have been, inspected the temple. There was one big room that I decided would do me for a living-room, if this were really my temple, as it had a sort of little veranda or look-out place, which stood out on the cliff side overlooking the place of tombs, and the plain where in the distance, about twelve miles as the crow flies, I could see in the clear atmosphere the walls of Peking. They might as well have been a hundred, I thought ruefully, for all the help I was likely to get from that city to-night, if this were not really my temple.
A Chinese temple is sparsely furnished. All the rooms had stone floors, all of them opened into the courtyard and not into one another, and for all furniture there were the usual k'angs, two cupboards, three tables, and three uncomfortable Chinese chairs. I had hired an easy chair, a lamp, and with my camp outfit I expected to manage. But where was my camp outfit?
I could not understand a word of what the people said, but they seemed friendly, they well might be, I thought, I was entirely at their mercy, and a very dirty old gentleman with claw-like hands, an unshaven head, and the minutest of queues came and contemplated me in a way which was decidedly disconcerting. I went and looked at the gods, dusty and dirty too in their sanctuaries. There was a most musical bell alongside one of them and when I struck it, the clang seemed to emphasise my loneliness and helplessness. Could this be the right temple? If it was not where was I to go? There was no means of getting back to Peking, short of walking, even then the gates must be shut long before I arrived. As far as I knew, there was no foreigner left in the hills. I went on to the look-out place, and looked out over the plain, and the old man came and looked at me, and I grew more and more uncomfortable. Tiffin time was long past, afternoon tea time came and went. It had been warm enough in the middle of the day, but the evenings grow chill towards the end of September, and I had only a white muslin gown on. At the very best the prospect of sleeping on one of those cold and stony k'angs did not look inviting. I could have cried as the shadows grew long and the sun set.
And then, oh joy, down beneath me, out on the hill-side, I heard a voice, an unmistakable American voice. I had been terrified, and like a flash my terrors rolled away. I looked over and there were a man and a woman taking an evening stroll, very much at home, for neither of them had on a hat. I forgot in a moment I had been afraid and I hailed them at once.
“Is this the San Shan An?”
“Sure,” said the man as they looked up in surprise.
Well, that was a relief anyhow, and I thought how foolish I had been to be afraid. But where were the carts?