“A buffalo in the temple! Hast thou dared to look even thus far?” said Kim. “I must do mysteries before fools; but have a care for thine eyes. Is there a film before them already? I save the babe, and for return thou—oh, shameless!” The man flinched at the direct gaze, for Kim was wholly in earnest.
“Shall I curse thee, or shall I—” He picked up the outer cloth of the bundle and threw it over the bowed head. “Dare so much as to think a wish to see, and—and—even I cannot save thee. Sit! Be dumb!”
“I am blind—dumb. Forbear to curse! Co—come, child; we will play a game of hiding. Do not, for my sake, look from under the cloth.”
“I see hope,” said E23. “What is thy scheme?”
“This comes next,” said Kim, plucking the thin body-shirt. E23 hesitated, with all a North-West man’s dislike of baring his body.
“What is caste to a cut throat?” said Kim, rending it to the waist. “We must make thee a yellow Saddhu all over. Strip—strip swiftly, and shake thy hair over thine eyes while I scatter the ash. Now, a caste-mark on thy forehead.” He drew from his bosom the little Survey paint-box and a cake of crimson lake.
“Art thou only a beginner?” said E23, labouring literally for the dear life, as he slid out of his body-wrappings and stood clear in the loin-cloth while Kim splashed in a noble caste-mark on the ash-smeared brow.
“But two days entered to the Game, brother,” Kim replied. “Smear more ash on the bosom.”
“Hast thou met—a physician of sick pearls?” He switched out his long, tight-rolled turban-cloth and, with swiftest hands, rolled it over and under about his loins into the intricate devices of a Saddhu’s cincture.
“Hah! Dost thou know his touch, then? He was my teacher for a while. We must bar thy legs. Ash cures wounds. Smear it again.”