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Page 115
"The Dalai Lama had fallen - he was alone in the Image Room. His
head striking the sharp edge of a table was cut. He had lost a
great deal of blood when we found him and was close to death.
Major Carstair was at this time approaching the monastery from
the south; his description sent to us from Lhassa contained the
statement that he was an American surgeon. We sent at once
asking him to visit the Dalai Lama, for the skill of Western
people in this department of human knowledge is known to us."
The Oriental went on, slowly, with extreme care.
"Major Carstair did not at once impress us. `What this man
needs,' he said, `is blood.' That was clear to everybody. One
of our, how shall I say it in your language, Cardinals, replied
with some bitterness, that the Dalai Lama could hardly be
imagined to lack anything else. Major Carstair paid no attention
to the irony. `This man must have a supply of blood,' he added.
The Cardinal, very old, and given to imagery in his discourse
answered, that blood could be poured out but it could not be
gathered up . . . and that man could spill it but only God could
make.
"We interrupted then, for Major Carstair was our guest and
entitled to every courtesy, and inquired how it would be possible
to restore blood to the Dalai Lama; it was not conceivable that
the lost blood could be gathered up.
"He explained then that he would transfer it from the veins of a
healthy man into the unconscious body."
The Oriental hesitated; then he went on.
"The thing seemed to us fantastic. But our text treating the
life of the Dalai Lama admits of no doubt upon one point - `no
measure presenting itself in extremity can be withheld.' He was
in clear extremity and this measure, even though of foreign
origin, had presented itself, and we felt after a brief
reflection that we were bound to permit it."
He added.
"The result was a miracle to us. In a short time the Dalai Lama
had recovered. But in the meantime Major Carstair had gone on
into the Gobi seeking the fantastic treasure."
The girl turned toward the man, a wide-eyed, eager, lighted face.
"Do you realize," she said, "the sort of treasure that my father
sacrificed his life to search for?"
The Oriental spoke slowly.
"It was to destroy a Kingdom," he said.
"To destroy the Kingdom of Pain!" She replied, "My father was
seeking an anesthetic more powerful than the derivatives of
domestic opium. He searched the world for it. In the little,
wild desert flower lay, he thought, the essence of this treasure.
And he would seek it at any cost. Fortune was nothing; life was
nothing. Is it any wonder that you could not stop him? A
flaming sword moving at the entrance to the Gobi could not have
barred him out!"
The big Oriental made a vague gesture as of one removing
something clinging to his face.
"Wherefore this blindness?" he said.
The girl had turned away in an effort to control the emotion that
possessed her. But the task was greater than her strength; when
she came back to the table tears welled up in her eyes and
trickled down her face. Emotion seemed now to overcome her.
"If my father were only here," her voice was broken, "if he were
only here!"
The big Oriental moved his whole body, as by one motion, toward
her. The house was very still; there was only the faint
crackling of the logs on the fire.
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