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At sunset, they turned off the trail.
In a gully protected from the rising cold wind, the lamas unloaded one of the carts and set up a yurt encampment. In twenty minutes, they assembled four tent-like structures of white felt and hides, bound with ropes to a framework of bent willow wands. Red banners flew from poles projecting through open smoke hatches in the tops, which could be covered with a flap to seal in warmth.
"We shall spend the night here," Damba advised them. "Madame, you will occupy that yurt. Lieutenant, you are in this one with Doctor Chavadzy. Yours is ready, now, Madame. Rest well."
"Chavadzy and I are going to take a run around the camp after that long ride," Brad said. "Like to join us?"
She told them no, and entered her yurt.
It was cozily warmed by a large brazier of hot coals placed near a stack of sable throws serving as a mattress. Worn out, Rebel chose a corner of the pile, curled up, and immediately plunged deeply into sleep.
The door flap rolled back. One of the lamas peered in. He held up a bowl, lifting it toward her with a smile. She took it gratefully. She noticed, with his helmet removed, that his head appeared to have been shaved of all hair. He smiled and went away.
The bowl was wrapped in a white silk scarf. She knew from Brad's informative conversation in the tarantass that this was the national symbol of etiquette. A Chinese porcelain spoon projected from the steaming liquid. She dipped some out, cooled it with a few puffs of breath, and, with considerable trepidation, ventured a sip.
Mutton broth? With bits of meat, and pearls of barley? Flavored with rosemary, garlic, and lime? Delicious!
No sooner had she finished the bowlful, than she wished she had more. As if he had heard her thoughts, the lama lifted the flap again and stepped in to fill the bowl. She nodded and smiled.
Her ravenous hunger satisfied by the first serving, she sipped at the second, staring into the brazier.
The tall one, the lama with blue ribbons...he is so silent...but he seems to lead. None of them stays at his side. He always rides a little ahead. He never looks back, never looks at me, not since the frontier. Those skulls at the crossing...oh!
Would it be unseemly if I were to sleep in the yurt with Brad and Chavadzy?
Stop this foolishness, Romelle! Rebel is with you. And Philo...Philo, you are watching over me, aren't you? Help me to think of other things.
Yes! Things Brad taught me in the tarantass!
I must never point my feet at the fire because the foot is an unspeakable vulgarity here.
They take tea with milk, in the English style, but with a lump of butter and some salt!
The drink of hospitality, which you dare not refuse, is koumiss - mare's milk fermented in a rawhide bag!
Oh, how can I stay in this barbaric land?
She finished the soup. The bowl was lined with silver. She pulled away the scarf.
It was a human skull.
Her scream woke Rebel. He leapt off the sables with a yelp. Brad nearly ripped away the flap when he crashed through the felt door. Chavadzy crowded in behind him, waving a gun. Then came Damba, white as a ghost.
"My God, Romy, what happened?" Brad roared.
They found her backed against the wall, wide-eyed with horror, still seated on the sables. Frantically, she gestured toward the bowl. She had flung it to the floor.
"Take it away," she cried. "Take it away!"
Shaken, Brad picked it up and stared back at the sightless sockets of the eyes.
A deep, stentorian voice boomed from outside, "Your pardon, Madame!"
All heads turned.
The tall lama, his scalp shaven like the others, stood in the doorway.
"I beg your pardon for this grievous blunder," he said, striding into the yurt. "It had not occurred to me that my associate would exercise such execrable judgment in passing that bowl to you. He is a simple man. I beg you to forgive us both."
Flabbergasted at hearing him speak so fluently in English, Romelle could not reply.
Chavadzy, however, was ready with a question. "If I may beg your pardon, as well, sir, why have you not spoken since the frontier?"
The lama bowed.
"I speak, Doctor Chavadzy, only when I have something to say."
In the flickering light of the oil lamps, the lama's naked head shone as brightly as the flicker of contempt in his eyes.
He again faced Romelle. "I have disturbed you, Madame, but I did not mean to do so. My manner is brusque. I witnessed your kindness to the young Cossack at the border crossing today. I, in turn, promise kindness to you. I want you to like my country. We are not the barbarians you may think us to be."
He turned to the others. "Gentlemen, the lady must rest. We shall all retire now."
He indicated the door authoritatively.
With low murmurs of goodnight, they filed out.
The last to leave, he held the door flap in his hand.
"Goodnight, Madame," he said. "Do not be afraid. It is simply a new world to you. You cannot begin to know how happy I am that you have come. You will bring an abundance of joy to your father's heart. He worships you. When I am with him, he speaks of you every day."
He dropped the flap in place as he turned away, taking with him all her fears.
She lay back on the sables with Rebel curled at her breast. Both of them sighed. The dog felt her peacefulness. She felt the warmth of his unquestioning love.
Father, you worship me? I worship you! Wherever you are, I will be there, too.
She fell into untroubled sleep.
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