On the second day the road rose steeply to a grass spur above the forest; and it was here, about sunset, that they came across an aged lama—but they called him a bonze—sitting cross-legged above a mysterious chart held down by stones, which he was explaining to a young man, evidently a neophyte, of singular, though unwashen, beauty. The striped umbrella had been sighted half a march away, and Kim had suggested a halt till it came up to them.
“Ha!” said Hurree Babu, resourceful as Puss-in-Boots. “That is eminent local holy man. Probably subject of my royal master.”
“What is he doing? It is very curious.”
“He is expounding holy picture—all hand-worked.”
The two men stood bareheaded in the wash of the afternoon sunlight low across the gold-coloured grass. The sullen coolies, glad of the check, halted and slid down their loads.
“Look!” said the Frenchman. “It is like a picture for the birth of a religion—the first teacher and the first disciple. Is he a Buddhist?”
“Of some debased kind,” the other answered. “There are no true Buddhists among the Hills. But look at the folds of the drapery. Look at his eyes—how insolent! Why does this make one feel that we are so young a people?” The speaker struck passionately at a tall weed. “We have nowhere left our mark yet. Nowhere! That, do you understand, is what disquiets me.” He scowled at the placid face, and the monumental calm of the pose.
“Have patience. We shall make your mark together—we and you young people. Meantime, draw his picture.”
The Babu advanced loftily; his back out of all keeping with his deferential speech, or his wink towards Kim.
“Holy One, these be Sahibs. My medicines cured one of a flux, and I go into Simla to oversee his recovery. They wish to see thy picture—”