Lady Meadowcroft resigned herself to the inevitable.

We mounted the path in a long line, the Lamas in yellow closely guarding our draggled little procession.

I tried my best to preserve my composure, and above all else not to look dejected.
As we approached the village, with its squalid and fetid huts, we caught the sound of bells, innumerable bells, tinkling at regular intervals.
Many people trooped out from their houses to look at us, all flat-faced, all with oblique eyes, all stolidly, sullenly, stupidly passive.

They seemed curious as to our dress and appearance, but not apparently hostile.

We walked on to the low line of the monastery with its pyramidal roof and its queer, flower-vase minarets.