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intelligent officers. I related again the story of my trip and we were all chatting
along animatedly when suddenly Colonel Sepailoff entered, singing to himself. All
the others at once became silent and one by one under various pretexts they
slipped out. He handed our host some papers and, turning to us, said:
"I shall send you for supper a splendid fish pie and some hot tomato soup."
As he left, my host clasped his head in desperation and said:
"With such scum of the earth are we now forced after this revolution to work!"
A few minutes later a soldier from Sepailoff brought us a tureen full of soup and
the fish pie. As the soldier bent over the table to set the dishes down, the Chief
motioned me with his eyes and slipped to me the words: "Notice his face."
When the man went out, my host sat attentively listening until the sounds of the
man's steps ceased.
"He is Sepailoff's executioner who hangs and strangles the unfortunate
condemned ones."
Then, to my amazement, he began to pour out the soup on the ground beside the
brazier and, going out of the yurta, threw the pie over the fence.
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Beasts, Men and Gods, by Ferdinand Ossendowski
"It is Sepailoff's feast and, though it may be very tasty, it may also be poison. In
Sepailoff's house it is dangerous to eat or drink anything."
Distinctly oppressed by these doings, I returned to my house. My host was not yet
asleep and met me with a frightened look. My friends were also there.
"God be thanked!" they all exclaimed. "Has nothing happened to you?"
"What is the matter?" I asked.
"You see," began the host, "after your departure a soldier came from Sepailoff
and took your luggage, saying that you had sent him for it; but we knew what it
meant that they would first search it and afterwards. . . ."
I at once understood the danger. Sepailoff could place anything he wanted in my
luggage and afterwards accuse me. My old friend, the agronome, and I started at
once for Sepailoff's, where I left him at the door while I went in and was met by
the same soldier who had brought the supper to us. Sepailoff received me
immediately. In answer to my protest he said that it was a mistake and, asking me
to wait for a moment, went out. I waited five, ten, fifteen minutes but nobody
came. I knocked on the door but no one answered me. Then I decided to go to
Baron Ungern and started for the exit. The door was locked. Then I tried the other
door and found that also locked. I had been trapped! I wanted at once to whistle to
my friend but just then noticed a telephone on the wall and called up Baron
Ungern. In a few minutes he appeared together with Sepailoff.
"What is this?" he asked Sepailoff in a severe, threatening voice; and, without
waiting for an answer, struck him a blow with his tashur that sent him to the floor.
We went out and the General ordered my luggage produced. Then he brought me
to his own yurta.
"Live here, now," he said. "I am very glad of this accident," he remarked with a
smile, "for now I can say all that I want to."
This drew from me the question:
"May I describe all that I have heard and seen here?"
He thought a moment before replying: "Give me your notebook."
I handed him the album with my sketches of the trip and he wrote therein: "After
my death, Baron Ungern."
"But I am older than you and I shall die before you," I remarked.
He shut his eyes, bowed his head and whispered:
"Oh, no! One hundred thirty days yet and it is finished; then . . . Nirvana! How
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wearied I am with sorrow, woe and hate!"
We were silent for a long time. I felt that I had now a mortal enemy in Colonel
Sepailoff and that I should get out of Urga at the earliest possible moment. It was
two o'clock at night. Suddenly Baron Ungern stood up.
"Let us go to the great, good Buddha," he said with a countenance held in deep
thought and with eyes aflame, his whole face contracted by a mournful, bitter
smile. He ordered the car brought.
Thus lived this camp of martyrs, refugees pursued by events to their tryst with
Death, driven on by the hate and contempt of this offspring of Teutons and
privateers! And he, martyring them, knew neither day nor night of peace. Fired by
impelling, poisonous thoughts, he tormented himself with the pains of a Titan,
knowing that every day in this shortening chain of one hundred thirty links brought
him nearer to the precipice called "Death."
CHAPTER XXXVIII
BEFORE THE FACE OF BUDDHA
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