Overholt had arrived expecting to use all his powers of persuasion to convince the Dalai Lama to flee--instead he found the decision had already been made. He should have expected as much--over the years he had grown to know the Dalai Lama, and he had never seen anything that made him doubt the leader's commitment to his people.

"My men and I would like to accompany you," Overholt offered. "We have detailed maps, radios and some supplies."

"We'd be glad to have you come along," the Dalai Lama said. "We leave shortly."

The Dalai Lama turned to leave.

"I wish I could have done more," Overholt said.

"Things are as they are," the Dalai Lama said at the door. "For now, however, you should assemble your men and meet us at the river."

HIGH ABOVE NORBULINGKA, the sky was dotted with a trillion stars. The moon, only days away from being full, lit the ground with a yellow diffused glow. A stillness, a quiet. The night birds that normally warbled their haunting songs were silent. The domesticated animals inside the compound--musk deer, mountain goats, camels, a single aged tiger and the peacocks that ran loose--barely stirred. A light TWO DAYS INTO the journey, across the sixteen-thousand-foot Che-La Pass and over the Tsangpo River, the group stopped for the night at the monastery at Ra-Me. Messengers racing on horseback caught up with the party and brought news that the Chinese had shelled Norbulingka and machine-gunned the helpless crowd. Thousands had been killed. The news cast a pall over the Dalai Lama.

Overholt had reported their progress by radio and felt relieved there had been no need to call for help. The route had been expertly chosen to avoid any conflict with the Chinese. He and his men were exhausted, but the hardy Nepalese pushed on without pause. The town of Lhuntse Dzong was behind them, as was the village of Jhora.

Karpo Pass, the border with India, was less than a day's ride.

And then it began to snow. A blizzard with howling winds and low clouds hunkered down over Mangmang, the last Tibetan town before the Indian border. The Dalai Lama, already exhausted by the journey and stressed by the knowledge that many of his countrymen lay dead and dying, took ill. His last night in his country was torment.

To ease his journey, he was placed on the back of an animal called a dzomo, which was a cross between a yak and a horse. As the dzomo climbed the side of Karpo Pass, the Dalai Lama paused to glance at his beloved Tibetan soil one last time.

Overholt pulled closer on his horse. He waited until the Dalai Lama glanced his way. "My country never forgets," he said, "and someday we will bring you back home."