So here I was detained in a tumble-down inn that had formerly been a temple.

All of us, men and master, were housed in the old guest-room.

Beds were formed of disused coffin boards, laid between steps made of clods of dry clay; the floor was earth, the windows paper.

The pony was feeding from a trough in the temple hall itself, an armful of excellent grass before it, while a bucket of beans was soaking for him in our corner.

Other mules and ponies were stationed in the side pavilions where formerly were displayed the scenes of torture in the Buddhist Hells.
As I wrote at a table by the window, a crowd collected, stretching across the street and quarrelling to catch a glimpse of the foreign teacher and his strange method of writing, so different from the Chinese.