“A priest is a priest. He says he will go upon this hour. I am his chela, and I go with him. We need food for the Road. He is an honoured guest in all the villages, but”—he broke into a pure boy’s grin—“the food here is good. Give me some.”
“What if I do not give it thee? I am the woman of this village.”
“Then I curse thee—a little—not greatly, but enough to remember.” He could not help smiling.
“Thou hast cursed me already by the down-dropped eyelash and the uplifted chin. Curses? What should I care for mere words?” She clenched her hands upon her bosom ... “But I would not have thee to go in anger, thinking hardly of me—a gatherer of cow-dung and grass at Shamlegh, but still a woman of substance.”
“I think nothing,” said Kim, “but that I am grieved to go, for I am very weary; and that we need food. Here is the bag.”
The woman snatched it angrily. “I was foolish,” said she. “Who is thy woman in the Plains? Fair or black? I was fair once. Laughest thou? Once, long ago, if thou canst believe, a Sahib looked on me with favour. Once, long ago, I wore European clothes at the Mission-house yonder.” She pointed towards Kotgarh. “Once, long ago. I was Ker-lis-ti-an and spoke English—as the Sahibs speak it. Yes. My Sahib said he would return and wed me—yes, wed me. He went away—I had nursed him when he was sick—but he never returned. Then I saw that the Gods of the Kerlistians lied, and I went back to my own people ... I have never set eyes on a Sahib since. (Do not laugh at me. The fit is past, little priestling.) Thy face and thy walk and thy fashion of speech put me in mind of my Sahib, though thou art only a wandering mendicant to whom I give a dole. Curse me? Thou canst neither curse nor bless!” She set her hands on her hips and laughed bitterly. “Thy Gods are lies; thy works are lies; thy words are lies. There are no Gods under all the Heavens. I know it ... But for awhile I thought it was my Sahib come back, and he was my God. Yes, once I made music on a pianno in the Mission-house at Kotgarh. Now I give alms to priests who are heatthen.” She wound up with the English word, and tied the mouth of the brimming bag.
“I wait for thee, chela,” said the lama, leaning against the door-post.
The woman swept the tall figure with her eyes. “He walk! He cannot cover half a mile. Whither would old bones go?”
At this Kim, already perplexed by the lama’s collapse and foreseeing the weight of the bag, fairly lost his temper.
“What is it to thee, woman of ill-omen, where he goes?”