“This were better in Mahbub Ali’s hands than a Bengali’s,” said Kim scornfully.
“There are more ways of getting to a sweetheart than butting down a wall.”
“See here the Hell appointed for avarice and greed. Flanked upon the one side by Desire and on the other by Weariness.” The lama warmed to his work, and one of the strangers sketched him in the quick-fading light.
“That is enough,” the man said at last brusquely. “I cannot understand him, but I want that picture. He is a better artist than I. Ask him if he will sell it.”
“He says ‘No, sar,’” the Babu replied. The lama, of course, would no more have parted with his chart to a casual wayfarer than an archbishop would pawn the holy vessels of his cathedral. All Tibet is full of cheap reproductions of the Wheel; but the lama was an artist, as well as a wealthy Abbot in his own place.
“Perhaps in three days, or four, or ten, if I perceive that the Sahib is a Seeker and of good understanding, I may myself draw him another. But this was used for the initiation of a novice. Tell him so, hakim.”
“He wishes it now—for money.”
The lama shook his head slowly and began to fold up the Wheel. The Russian, on his side, saw no more than an unclean old man haggling over a dirty piece of paper. He drew out a handful of rupees, and snatched half-jestingly at the chart, which tore in the lama’s grip. A low murmur of horror went up from the coolies—some of whom were Spiti men and, by their lights, good Buddhists. The lama rose at the insult; his hand went to the heavy iron pencase that is the priest’s weapon, and the Babu danced in agony.
“Now you see—you see why I wanted witnesses. They are highly unscrupulous people. Oh, sar! sar! You must not hit holyman!”
“Chela! He has defiled the Written Word!”