We soon perceived that Lobsang was a man of importance, for all showed him the greatest respect, and we could see from his camp that he was rich. He spoke with dignity, and with an educated, refined accent. In his appearance he reminded me of a decayed actor, without a trace of beard, and with an animated expression in his dirty, copper-coloured face. Unlike the rest, who wore sheepskin caps, he sported a red turban, and his fur coat was trimmed with red woollen stuff. In the front of his coat all sorts of things were stuffed, among them a vile pocket-handkerchief—a thick, coloured, square rag, constantly in use, but never washed. There also he kept his snuff-horn, which he could handle even in a wind with a certain dexterity. The fine yellow snuff was scooped up on the tip of the forefinger under the protection of the thumb-nail, and conveyed to its destination somewhat noisily.
Every evening Muhamed Isa made his report. This time he presented himself with the following statement: “Sahib, Rehim Ali is still bad, and he begs permission to offer a sheep to Allah.”
“Very well, if he will be any the better for it.”
“Oh yes, certainly, Sahib.”
“I think it is all humbug, but it will do him no harm and the Mohammedans will get an extra meal. I will give the sheep then.”
“No, Sahib, that will not do; then the sacrifice would have no effect.”
“Indeed. Can I have the kidneys for dinner to-morrow?”
“No, Sahib, only Mohammedans may eat of a sheep offered in sacrifice.”
“Just so; of course in your opinion I am a kaper” (heathen).
He laughingly protested, but changed the subject. “Now we have 13 mules and 11 horses, or 27 animals altogether, of the original caravan.”