PO THE HOLY HILLe 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 vecherché 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 arow. 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 
