“Even now the darkness clears,” said Kim. It was only natural that the descending sun should at last strike through the tree-trunks, across the grove, filling it with mealy gold light for a few minutes; but to Kim it was the crown of the Umballa Brahmin’s prophecy.
“Hark!” said the lama. “One beats a drum—far off!”
At first the sound, carrying diluted through the still air, resembled the beating of an artery in the head. Soon a sharpness was added.
“Ah! The music,” Kim explained. He knew the sound of a regimental band, but it amazed the lama.
At the far end of the plain a heavy, dusty column crawled in sight. Then the wind brought the tune:
We crave your condescension
To tell you what we know
Of marching in the Mulligan Guards
To Sligo Port below!
Here broke in the shrill-tongued fifes:
We shouldered arms,
We marched—we marched away.
From Phœnix Park
We marched to Dublin Bay.
The drums and the fifes,
Oh, sweetly they did play,
As we marched—marched—marched—with the
Mulligan Guards!
It was the band of the Mavericks playing the regiment to camp; for the men were route-marching with their baggage. The rippling column swung into the level—carts behind it divided left and right, ran about like an ant-hill, and ...
“But this is sorcery!” said the lama.