“Ho, shameless beggars!” shouted the farmer. “Begone! Get hence!”
“We go,” the lama returned, with quiet dignity. “We go from these unblessed fields.”
“Ah,” said Kim, sucking in his breath. “If the next crops fail, thou canst only blame thine own tongue.”
The man shuffled uneasily in his slippers. “The land is full of beggars,” he began, half apologetically.
“And by what sign didst thou know that we would beg from thee, O Mali?” said Kim tartly, using the name that a market-gardener least likes. “All we sought was to look at that river beyond the field there.”
“River, forsooth!” the man snorted. “What city do ye hail from not to know a canal-cut? It runs as straight as an arrow, and I pay for the water as though it were molten silver. There is a branch of a river beyond. But if ye need water I can give that—and milk.”
“Nay, we will go to the river,” said the lama, striding out.
“Milk and a meal.” the man stammered, as he looked at the strange tall figure. “I—I would not draw evil upon myself—or my crops. But beggars are so many in these hard days.”
“Take notice.” The lama turned to Kim. “He was led to speak harshly by the Red Mist of anger. That clearing from his eyes, he becomes courteous and of an affable heart. May his fields be blessed! Beware not to judge men too hastily, O farmer.”
“I have met holy ones who would have cursed thee from hearthstone to byre,” said Kim to the abashed man. “Is he not wise and holy? I am his disciple.”