It was no
dream of the night; it was between nine and ten o'clock of the
forenoon. There was the sun shining and silently witnessing the scene
from above. I see him before me in flesh and blood, and he speaks to me
in accents of kindness and gentleness. What more could I want? My
excess of happiness made me dumb. Nor was it until some time had
elapsed that I was able to utter a few words, encouraged by his gentle
tone and speech. His complexion is not as fair as that of Mahatma
Koothoomi; but never have I seen a countenance so handsome, a stature
so tall and so majestic. As in his portrait, he wears a short black
beard, and long black hair hanging down to his breast; only his dress
was different: Instead of a white, loose robe he wore a yellow mantle
lined with fur, and on his head, instead of the turban, a yellow Tibetan
felt cap, as I have seen some Bhootanese wear in this country. When the
first moments of rapture and surprise were over, and I calmly
comprehended the situation, I had a long talk with him. He told me to
go no further, for I should come to grief.
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