“Thus it is proved,” said the Shamlegh man adroitly, “that they are Sahibs of no account. Who ever heard of Fostum Sahib, or Yankling Sahib, or even the little Peel Sahib that sits up of nights to shoot serow—I say, who, ever heard of these Sahibs coming into the hills without a down-country cook, and a bearer, and—and all manner of well-paid, high-handed and oppressive folk in their tail? How can they make trouble? What of the kilta?”
“Nothing, but that it is full of the Written Word—books and papers in which they wrote, and strange instruments, as of worship.”
“Shamlegh-midden will take them all.”
“True! But how if we insult the Sahibs’ Gods thereby! I do not like to handle the Written Word in that fashion. And their brass idols are beyond my comprehension. It is no plunder for simple hill-folk.”
“The old man still sleeps. Hst! We will ask his chela.” The Ao-chung man refreshed himself, and swelled with pride of leadership.
“We have here,” he whispered, “a kilta whose nature we do not know.”
“But I do,” said Kim cautiously. The lama drew breath in natural, easy sleep, and Kim had been thinking of Hurree’s last words. As a player of the Great Game, he was disposed just then to reverence the Babu. “It is a kilta with a red top full of very wonderful things, not to be handled by fools.”
“I said it; I said it,” cried the bearer of that burden. “Thinkest thou it will betray us?”
“Not if it be given to me. I can draw out its magic. Otherwise it will do great harm.”
“A priest always takes his share.” Whisky was demoralizing the Ao-chung man.