TO THE HOLY HILLS 341 



at 7.30, and then left. For breakfast we warmed our 

 last night's lamp, pulled the wick out, and then ate the 

 grease with black bread. It was not a recherchd meal, 

 but it was economical. Then Abeiloh, the eldest brother, 

 left with me for the bolvan hill. 



After a journey (uneventful except that I picked a 

 harebell bloom, and that we passed the Bulchikoff's 

 winter seat — an ombara or hut, set in mouldering 

 relics of Samoyed dirt of every description) we reached 

 Bolvana Mountain. Sahbor — the cathedral — the 

 Samoyeds call it, using the Russian word. 



Here I found nineteen bolvans or idols. They were 

 not stuck up, but were lying side by side in a row. A 

 few were comparatively new, but the majority were very, 

 very old, and grey with lichen. All had the same 

 features and the same ribs. Also there was a little 

 broken sleigh, a spoon, and the remains of a flour-tub 

 — propitiatory gifts from dead men's friends. I was 

 naturally very anxious to secure some of these, but 

 found it difficult. 



Abeiloh's behaviour was very different from that of 

 old Marrk. Instead of lying prone he came with me 

 to the very spot, and there, standing face to the sun, 

 with much bowing and extending of the arms, he ran 

 on in a continuous stream of words, of which I could 

 not gather any sense. But I felt he had his eye on 

 me all the while, for whenever I moved a hand towards 

 the bolvans he turned quickly round with a cunning 



