On the morning of the fourth day, the party crested a hill. A large city, breathtaking in its splendor, spread out on the plain below.
The tall lama rode back to the tarantass.
"Urga," he intoned solemnly, "the Sacred City. As headquarters of the chief branch of Lamaism, Urga glorifies the pantheon of Lamaist gods. It is as sacred to the Lamaist as are the holy cities of Jerusalem to Christians, Mecca to Muslims, and Benares to Hindus."
Sunlight glittered on the gilded domes and spires of majestic temples. Broad boulevards laced the city between massive palaces of wood. Graceful bridges spanned the gleaming Tola River. Strewn among the buildings were stockades reminiscent of the American Wild West, enclosing compounds of chalky yurts that fluttered colorful banners from central poles.
Beyond the city, a cluster of palaces crowded against the base of a stately mountain.
The lama pointed in that direction.
"That is God's mountain," he explained. "It is our Sinai and Olympus, a place of pilgrimage. The Living Buddha resides at its foot."
Slowly, they rode down to the perimeter of the city. Romelle called Rebel and took him into the tarantass with her, being careful not to let him muss her clothes. Knowing that today she was to be received at a court, she had worn a fashionable riding habit and hat, which would still allow her to change to horseback if the occasion arose.
Noisy children ran alongside, smiling in welcome and pointing at the dog. The boldest boy reached in to touch the medallion collar given him by Alexis. Rebel had the grace to let it pass unnoticed, knowing himself to be an alien in a land of foreign sounds and smells.
They came to a stop at a cluster of men in conical hats of yellow silk with upturned black velvet brims. Red ribbons spilled down the backs of their golden brocade gowns.
In the midst of them sat three gaily painted two-wheeled carts upholstered in thickly quilted daffodil silk. Above the passenger bench in each, rose a broad umbrella of gold brocade trimmed with a wide ruffle of red.
Damba dismounted. "If you would be so kind as to change into the carts. There is one for each of you. Madame will occupy the first."
One of the new lamas stepped between the extended double shafts of each of the carts, picked them up, and trotted off at a steady pace, pulling the carts in rickshaw style.
The wagons jolted roughly through the streets.
They careened past wooden palisades punctuated by tall, open gates that revealed villages of yurts. Other gates exposed buildings in Oriental style, of painted wood or tinted stucco over stone. Most impressive were the temples with gilded roofs and brightly colored eaves, places of worship for the public and homes for the lamas who seemed as numerous as the general population.
Wooden sheds stood at street intersections, covering cylinders of wood festooned with white paper strips and colored silk ribbons marked with prayers. These were public prayer wheels. Long lines of people waited to turn them - the more turns, the more blessings.
Many whirled tiny prayer wheels in their hands. Hardly a one was without a rosary of prayer beads swinging from the wrist.
At last, the traveling party arrived at the nest of palaces clustered on the far side of the city. On a bank of the Tola River, they came to a stop before the gateway of a white wooden palisade. Scores of chalky yurts crowded together around a vast brick mansion designed in the ugliest Russian style.
Inside the palace, Romelle and Brad both gasped in surprise at sofas and chairs of every description, Persian and Chinese rugs in tall stacks, hundreds of clocks all set to different times, chintz curtains at some windows, velvet or damask draperies at others, and an enormous wood-burning stove with a grandfather clock standing on top.
On a dais in a large room stood a golden throne, thickly cushioned, and studded with pearls. On the throne sat a corpulent man gowned in a yellow brocade robe, his head covered with a fur-trimmed cone of solid gold.
He beamed at Romelle. While she watched, he folded his full sleeves back to reveal a row of expensive Western watches strapped the length of one arm and a row of ladies' bracelets on the other, sparkling with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, coral and jade.
A broadly smiling woman stepped up beside him, tall, handsome, and proud. She wore an approximation of Western dress. Over a Mongolian gown of yellow silk, she had laced a corset. A fancy brassiere supported her breasts.
A feather boa floated at her throat, and she peered at Romelle through a monocle that kept slipping from her eye. On her head perched a wide-brimmed summer straw dripping artificial flowers. Pleased by Romelle and Brad's wide-mouthed awe, she pirouetted to reveal a handsome bustle, uncovered, attached at the rear.
Having sufficiently impressed the guests with her magnificence, the lady came down from the dais. With a flourish, she showed Romelle a Sears, Roebuck catalogue several years out of date.
"She is the wife of the Living Buddha, and that is one of her most precious possessions," said the tall lama, who stood close behind them. "She has done you a great honor. A curtsy would be in order, Madame."
Romelle complied, dipping to the floor as if she were being received at any great Court in Europe.
The gesture met with boisterous approval around the room. Even the portly gentleman on the throne applauded energetically.
"You are the first Western woman and among the few foreigners to be received in this palace," explained the lama. "You are standing before the Living Buddha. He is our spiritual guide in Mongolia."
The Living Buddha began to address them. His voice was congenial, his manner self-assured. The tall lama interpreted softly as he spoke.
"In our country, all children belong to everyone. There are no orphans here. I have been told by some who observed you along the road that you love children, too, and that you were kind to suffering humanity, as well. I believe you are a noble and loving being. All Mongols are my children. I am happy to accept you as one of them."
The Court murmured approval.
There was a moment of silence, then the Living Buddha spoke again. "Have you any questions, my child? Or you, young man?"
Brad turned to the lama. "I do have a question, but I don't think I should ask it." The lama went ahead and translated the statement exactly.
"What?" asked the Living Buddha. "What do you want to know? Ask anything!"
With some hesitation, Brad began. "I have been reading about your country's customs. Isn't it true, Holiness, that lamas are supposed to live without women, and women may not even enter the temples? How is it that you are married?"
The Living Buddha roared with laughter, as did the Court, which was entirely male. "Well, even the Lord Buddha, early in life when he was still the Prince Siddhattha, was a married man before he received spiritual enlightenment. The Mongols are a reasonable people, so when I, a living god, fell in love with a woman as the Lord Buddha himself did long ago, it became obvious to all that she was a living goddess! Were she not, I could not have taken her as my wife.
"No woman may enter our temples except on special holy days, not even the female lamas. Most of those are old women who have finished their work of bearing and rearing children. Some are very famous, traveling about the countryside and doing good works, but even they are no exception. When my messengers came to report that you and Madame were arriving this morning, I declared this a holy day. Thus, she is permitted to enter, but for this day only!"
Chavadzy stepped forward to the tall lama's side.
"May I ask you to interpret for me, sir?" he asked. "I am instructed by the Tsar to make a presentation."
The lama nodded.
"Your Holiness," the Russian began, "the Tsar wishes you to know that a very fine motor car of German manufacture will be delivered here in the early summer. It is for your personal use. I understand that it will be the first in the country as your roads are not properly surfaced to accommodate automobiles. Further, the Tsar will provide engineers and materiél to resurface the road we have just traveled, all the way from the Russian frontier. The Tsar wishes you to understand that this project is a private gift in the name of Madame. He wishes to make clear this is not a gift from him, or from the Russian people. Will you accept, Holiness?"
The Living Buddha appeared to be pleased. "I am delighted to accept. Madame, I thank you on behalf of Mongolia. Your father is much beloved among us for saving the lives of more than twelve thousand Mongolians in the typhus epidemic of 1904. His work at Dragon's Heart is of inestimable benefit to us. And now comes his noble daughter to help our backward land enter the new world. Thank you, Madame."
Chavadzy spoke softly behind her. "Please smile, as though you knew of this in advance, and accept his thanks."
She acquiesced.
Their audience finished, the tall lama led them away.
Outside, Chavadzy explained the gift. "Russia cannot officially contribute anything to Mongolia while it is a province of China under the Manchu dynasty. The Living Buddha understands this perfectly well. Our mutual border is thousands of miles long, one of the most militarily sensitive frontiers in the world. The Tsar has asked me, while I am here, to contact the rebel leader and offer arms and munitions in his struggle against the occupation. When the time comes for revolution, they can then be transported quickly into the country over your highway, Madame. Do you understand?"
Romelle nodded. "I do, but how do you contact this leader? Does he really exist?"
"Ah, yes," Chavadzy chuckled, "he exists. We are sure the Phantom General can somehow be found. We shall need help, of course. We pray that your father can assist us."
The tall lama listened attentively, but did not show any emotion at his words.
"We shall leave the city, now," he said when Chavadzy had finished. "The comfortable part of our trip is over. Now, the real journey begins. Do you ride on horseback, Madame?"
"I do," she replied. "I would prefer it, after these ghastly tarantass and goat-cart rides. I've brought riding gear."
"And you, Lieutenant?"
"I began my career as a Marine on horseback," answered Brad.
"Very well, the Living Buddha has offered horses from his finest stock for your use. Not Arabs, of course. They are too fragile for our rocky terrain. He is providing you with a strong Manchurian strain. We Mongols may be the best horsemen alive, and we love our classic ponies, but I think you will agree that the Manchus breed a fine horse. Here they come."
Damba appeared, leading a string of several horses, and said: "Any of these will serve you well. My father gave them to the Living Buddha himself. My sister's bride price was a hundred thousand mounts from the Empress Dowager's private Manchurian stables. Aren't they all beauties? You have mentioned liking bays, Lieutenant. Here's one I found for you. Doctor Chavadzy, there are two white stallions to choose from. I have noticed how you always take an interest in white horses. As for you, Madame, perhaps....."
The sound of galloping hooves diverted their attention to a lampblack mare racing toward them followed by two shouting stable boys.
"She must have jumped the fence of the paddock!" cried Damba. "What a magnificent creature! Please stand aside, Madame. You could get hurt."
Brad made a move toward the mare, but Romelle put up her hand to stop him.
No," she said. "she will not hurt me. I shall be safe with her. Yes, I feel completely safe."
Boldly, she stepped directly into the horse's path. The black mare drew up within inches of her, tossed its head, and took just one step more before lowering her head to touch Romelle's cheek with her muzzle in a gesture of instant commitment and trust.
Romelle turned to the astonished men. "This mare has been chosen for me by fate. I knew it the moment I saw her galloping here. Nothing could keep us apart. It had to be. And that will be her name, Fate. A horse by that name carried the man who might have been my father to his own destiny. I am riding to mine. It is fit to name her this. Saddle her for me."
 Only she in that little group knew of the black stallion ridden by the Prince Imperial in South Africa more than thirty years before. So it was that Romelle mounted its namesake decades afterward in an equally foreign place, and, looking as elegant as if she
were riding to the hounds at Cheverny, took off a gallop ahead of the men.
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