The room, when we entered, was occupied by a dozen Chinese, with their loads and the packsaddles of a caravan of mules; yet what did the good-natured fellows do?
They must all have been more tired than I; but, without complaining, they all got up when they saw me, and packed their things and went out of the room, one after the other, to make way for myself and my companions.

And, while we were comfortable, they crowded into another room that was already crowded.
Next day a tremendously steep descent took us down to Kiangti, a mountain village on the right bank of a swift stream, here spanned in its rocky pass by a beautiful suspension bridge, which swings gracefully high above the torrent.

The bridge is 150 feet long by 12 feet broad, and there is no engineer in England who might not be proud to have been its builder.

At its far end the parapets are guarded by two sculptured monkeys, hewn with rough tools out of granite, and the more remarkable for their fidelity of form, seeing that the artist must have carved them from memory.

The inevitable likin-barrier is at the bridge to squeeze a few more cash out of the poor carriers.