“Oh, Holy One, thy Hills are kinder than our Plains!” cried Kim, relieved, as the lama tottered to the litter. “It is a very king’s bed—a place of honour and ease. And we owe it to—”
“A woman of ill-omen. I need thy blessings as much as I do thy curses. It is my order and none of thine. Lift and away! Here! Hast thou money for the road?”
She beckoned Kim to her hut, and stooped above a battered English cash-box under her cot.
“I do not need anything,” said Kim, angered where he should have been grateful. “I am already rudely loaded with favours.”
She looked up with a curious smile and laid a hand on his shoulder. “At least, thank me. I am foul-faced and a hillwoman, but, as thy talk goes, I have acquired merit. Shall I show thee how the Sahibs render thanks?” and her hard eyes softened.
“I am but a wandering priest,” said Kim, his eyes lighting in answer. “Thou needest neither my blessings nor my curses.”
“Nay. But for one little moment—thou canst overtake the dooli in ten strides—if thou wast a Sahib, shall I show thee what thou wouldst do?”
“How if I guess, though?” said Kim, and putting his arm round her waist, he kissed her on the cheek, adding in English: “Thank you verree much, my dear.”
Kissing is practically unknown among Asiatics, which may have been the reason that she leaned back with wide-open eyes and a face of panic.
“Next time,” Kim went on, “you must not be so sure of your heatthen priests. Now I say good-bye.” He held out his hand English-fashion. She took it mechanically. “Good-bye, my dear.”