“Ah!” Kim’s voice was sweeter than ever, as he broke the dung-cake into fit pieces. “In my country we call that the beginning of love-talk.”
A harsh, thin cackle behind the curtains put the hillman on his mettle for a second shot.
“Not so bad—not so bad,” said Kim with calm. “But have a care, my brother, lest we—we, I say—be minded to give a curse or so in return. And our curses have the knack of biting home.”
The Ooryas laughed; the hillman sprang forward threateningly. The lama suddenly raised his head, bringing his huge tam-o’-shanter hat into the full light of Kim’s new-started fire.
“What is it?” said he.
The man halted as though struck to stone. “I—I—am saved from a great sin,” he stammered.
“The foreigner has found him a priest at last,” whispered one of the Ooryas.
“Hai! Why is that beggar-brat not well beaten?” the old woman cried.
The hillman drew back to the cart and whispered something to the curtain. There was dead silence, then a muttering.
“This goes well,” thought Kim, pretending neither to see nor hear.