Kim stared with all his eyes, his breath coming short and sharp between his teeth. The soldiers stamped off into the sunshine.
“O Holy One!” he gasped. “My horoscope! The drawing in the dust by the priest at Umballa! Remember what he said. First come two—ferashes—to make all things ready—in a dark place, as it is always at the beginning of a vision.”
“But this is not vision,” said the lama. “It is the world’s Illusion, and no more.”
“And after them comes the Bull—the Red Bull on the green field. Look! It is he!”
He pointed to the flag that was snap snapping in the evening breeze not ten feet away. It was no more than an ordinary camp marking-flag; but the regiment, always punctilious in matters of millinery, had charged it with the regimental device, the Red Bull, which is the crest of the Mavericks—the great Red Bull on a background of Irish green.
“I see, and now I remember.” said the lama. “Certainly it is thy Bull. Certainly, also, the two men came to make all ready.”
“They are soldiers—white soldiers. What said the priest? ‘The sign over against the Bull is the sign of War and armed men.’ Holy One, this thing touches my Search.”
“True. It is true.” The lama stared fixedly at the device that flamed like a ruby in the dusk. “The priest at Umballa said that thine was the sign of War.”
“What is to do now?”
“Wait. Let us wait.”