Whenever I have a moment’s respite from my endless occupations, I cannot resist temptation. I come, almost instinctively, out of my room on to the verandah of the bungalow and stand looking through the trembling curtain of poplar-trees at the little lake that glitters just beyond, at the fields planted with trees, at the great frowning rock surmounted by the palace of the‘Gyalpo’ with the little ancient chapels as the end, at the blue, clear sky and at the dark background of the Zanskar Mountains. I have the same longing to gaze, the same passion as when I arrived here more than four months ago. Then, still instinctively, almost unconsciously, I descend the few steps of the verandah, go out through the fence which surrounds the little shady enclosure belonging to the bungalow, and go off at a venture, leaving my way to chance. I feel as if it were a dream. Suddenly, as though I had just woken up, I find myself standing in some remote corner of the city, whence, through the narrow opening of a lane or framed in a small archway under a dark, mysterious portico, can be seen the majestic beauty of the royal palace, or the succession of the roofs of the whole city stretching away into the distance, or a crowded mass of chorten lined up like so many soldiers. The nearer I get to the moment of my departure, the more frequent become these almost unconscious walks of mine-without any definite goal or exact aim but just with the instinctive object of seeing and enjoying myself.