“To heal the sick is always good. This is the Wheel of Life,” said the lama, “the same I showed thee in the hut at Ziglaur when the rain fell.”
“And to hear thee expound it.”
The lama’s eyes lighted at the prospect of new listeners. “To expound the Most Excellent Way is good. Have they any knowledge of Hindi, such as had the Keeper of Images?”
“A little, maybe.”
Hereat, simply as a child engrossed with a new game, the lama threw back his head and began the full-throated invocation of the Doctor of Divinity ere he opens the full doctrine. The strangers leaned on their alpenstocks and listened. Kim, squatting humbly, watched the red sunlight on their faces, and the blend and parting of their long shadows. They wore un-English leggings and curious girt-in belts that reminded him hazily of the pictures in a book in St Xavier’s library ‘The Adventures of a Young Naturalist in Mexico’ was its name. Yes, they looked very like the wonderful M. Sumichrast of that tale, and very unlike the “highly unscrupulous folk” of Hurree Babu’s imagining. The coolies, earth-coloured and mute, crouched reverently some twenty or thirty yards away, and the Babu, the slack of his thin gear snapping like a marking-flag in the chill breeze, stood by with an air of happy proprietorship.
“These are the men,” Hurree whispered, as the ritual went on and the two whites followed the grass-blade sweeping from Hell to Heaven and back again. “All their books are in the large kilta with the reddish top—books and reports and maps—and I have seen a King’s letter that either Hilás or Bunár has written. They guard it most carefully. They have sent nothing back from Hilás or Leh. That is sure.”
“Who is with them?”
“Only the beegar-coolies. They have no servants. They are so close they cook their own food.”
“But what am I to do?”
“Wait and see. Only if any chance comes to me thou wilt know where to seek for the papers.”