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horses as he rode, telling them tales of his homeland and of the mighty victories of his forefathers. He talked to himself,
     making lists of the places he had been and the places he still wanted to see. He sang through his entire repertoire, bawdy
     songs to nursery rhymes, but in the end it was as if the mountains gobbled up the sound and spewed more silence back at him.
    Silence and cold; cold was his other companion. His fur-lined coat and boots held off the worst of it during the day, as did
     thefire and his tent at night, but like the silence it was always present, always looking for a vulnerable moment to attack.
    On the afternoon of the third day, the narrow path down which Duncan had been riding finally reached a main road. This was
     the road Zhi-yu had said he would find, and with relief Duncan turned the horses onto its hard-packed surface. Neither muddy
     nor dusty, it was as if centuries of feet had compacted the top of the soil into stone. The horses picked up their pace, eager
     for the place of rest and food that might be ahead. Duncan wanted a warm fire and a hot drink to chase the chill from his
     bones.
    He rode for another hour. Finally, as he neared the crest of one of the road’s many rises, Duncan began to hear voices. Coming
     over the rise, he saw in the distance that the road was lined with people as far as he could see. After so many hours of silent
     solitude, the sight seemed unreal, and MacLeod blinked twice, trying to clear his mind of the mirage. Then he urged the horses
     into a canter.
    Another road merged with the road he was on, and it, too, was lined with people. Duncan saw that many among the crowd held
     long white strips of cloth in their hands, while others, especially the children, carried bunches of the early wildflowers
     he had seen growing in sparse clumps among the hills. They all chattered excitedly, speaking far too rapidly and in dialects
     too diverse for Duncan’s limited knowledge of their language.
    Suddenly, from down the other road, the noise built, and around him the excitement turned palpable. Two words were repeated
     often enough for Duncan to finally understand.
    “He’s coming,” the people whispered among themselves, shouted to each other. “He’s coming.”
    Duncan turned his head and strained to see, same as the people around him. Down the long road came a line of Tibetan monks,
     their robes of maroon and saffron creating a bright undulating stream of color. As they walked, they chanted and rang small
     hand bells whose sound carried faintly through the still air.
    Row upon row they came, walking in pairs. Duncan counted—twenty, thirty, fifty, eighty. Then, in the middle of the procession
     was a covered litter, its yellow cloth glittering like gold in the sunlight. The people on the road surged toward it, but
     there was an orderliness even to their enthusiasm.
    Moments passed as the litter neared. Duncan sat on his horse,watching the spectacle in fascination. One by one, the people stepped to the litter, bowing and presenting their offerings
     of flowers and white scarves. From inside the litter two hands reached out. Constantly in motion, they seemed to flutter like
     a bird’s wings as they touched the foreheads of the children in blessing, accepting their gifts or lifting the white cloths
     from the outstretched hands of the adults, draping them over reverently bowed necks.
    With the same orderly chaos, the people who had come forward backed away again, making room for the next. The crowd ebbed
     and flowed like a great wave slowly rolling down the road toward MacLeod. He stayed seated astride his horse, too entranced
     to ride on.
    The rows of monks were passing now as the golden litter drew near. MacLeod could see that the bright yellow cloth had been
     intricately embroidered with tiny figures of birds, flowers, trees, rivers, lakes and mountains, all outlined in threads of
     gold and silver that flashed in the springtime sun.
    A few words