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monks as part of their contemplative duties.
     The gardens were places of serene beauty enhanced by the presence of the lake created by excavating the materials to build
     the massive structure of the Potala. The lake was fed by underground springs and runoff from the mountains. Out of curiosity,
     Duncan put his hand in the lake and came away shaking his head, wondering how anyone, even a Tibetan monk, could bring himself
     to bathe in such frigid water.
    On the afternoon of his fifth day at the Potala, MacLeod decided to venture down into the city of Lhasa. The day was bright
     with sunshine and the air about forty-five degrees; a warm spring day for Tibet. Duncan left the Potala with no more destination
     than a pleasant walk in mind.
    The streets of the city were not laid out with the orderly progression of a European city. They curved and meandered like
     a strolling path in a woodland park. The entire city had a parklike air with small, brightly painted houses bordered by flowering
     shrubs and well-tended gardens. Everywhere they could be hung, prayer flags fluttered in the breeze, gay as banners on a parade
     ground.
    The people, too, wore colorful clothing, predominately shades of blues and greens, white, pink, and coral, with black bands
     and trims that made the lighter colors appear all the more vibrant. Here, as among the nomads, men’s clothing was darker and
     married women wore the five-colored aprons that denoted their status. Occasionally Duncan saw someone wearing yellow, orange,
     or red. These, he knew, were religious colors marking someone who had taken a vow. He was careful to respectfully bow to any
     such person who passed him.
    The people of Lhasa showed no fear of the tall white strangerwalking their streets. Children ran to him, calling out their greetings and squealing with delight when he answered them.
     Adults paused in their work to smile at him. It was like walking through the garden of paradise, and Duncan found himself
     more warmed by the people than by the sun.
    Following the curve of the streets, Duncan came suddenly upon one of the city wells. Clustered around it, a group of six young
     women sat chatting and laughing. Wrapped in the soft sunlight, it was such a scene of feminine beauty that Duncan stopped,
     not wanting to move and shatter the moment.
    The young women were all of an age when the full bloom of adulthood had ripened their bodies but the ravages of worries and
     weather had not yet touched them. Lovely as they were, there was one among them who seemed to sparkle with an inner light.
     Duncan could not take his eyes from her.
    “The Tibetans are comely people, aren’t they?” said a voice by his side.
    Duncan quickly turned to find a man in clerical garb standing next to him. His long black cassock looked out of place among
     the brightly colored houses, and the English he spoke was both welcome for its familiarity and an intrusion, a reminder of
     the life Duncan wanted to forget.
    Though his words were English, his voice cultured and educated, his face was Nepalese. Here was one of the missionaries of
     whom the Dalai Lama had spoken. From the manner of his attire—the black cassock that did not button down the front but fastened
     at the neck and was tied by a sash at the waist, the knee-length black cape and the black biretta he wore—Duncan knew this
     one was Jesuit. It did not surprise him, for the Jesuits, knowing there is no one so zealous as a convert, frequently ordained
     from within the native population.
    But at least he’s not an Immortal
, Duncan thought. The Game had still not found him.
    Still, Duncan narrowed his eyes and looked at the man suspiciously; two hundred years of experience had left him with little
     love for the members of the Society of Jesus.
    “I am Father Edward,” the priest said, offering his hand.
    Duncan hesitated the briefest moment before shaking it. “Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” he answered formally.
    “I had