“But—but the astrologer said no word of this,” cried the lama, snuffing prodigiously in his excitement.
“But I know. The word has come to me, who am this Holy One’s disciple. There will rise a war—a war of eight thousand redcoats. From Pindi and Peshawur they will be drawn. This is sure.”
“The boy has heard bazar-talk,” said the priest.
“But he was always by my side,” said the lama. “How should he know? I did not know.”
“He will make a clever juggler when the old man is dead,” muttered the priest to the headman. “What new trick is this?”
“A sign. Give me a sign,” thundered the old soldier suddenly. “If there were war my sons would have told me.”
“When all is ready, thy sons, doubt not, will be told. But it is a long road from thy sons to the man in whose hands these things lie.” Kim warmed to the game, for it reminded him of experiences in the letter-carrying line, when, for the sake of a few pice, he pretended to know more than he knew. But now he was playing for larger things—the sheer excitement and the sense of power. He drew a new breath and went on.
“Old man, give me a sign. Do underlings order the goings of eight thousand redcoats—with guns?”
“No.” Still the old man answered as though Kim were an equal.
“Dost thou know who He is, then, that gives the order?”