“Wait there,” he commanded, and vanished. Ommony could hear him climbing down into the darkness—and presently two voices as he talked in low tones with the chela. Then, silence, for a very long time, only broken by the music of the rain and a weird wind sighing on the upper ledges until wind and rain ceased, and there was only the tinkle of dripping water.
The dog crept close to Ommony for warmth, shivering at the loneliness. Ommony tried to memorize the Lama’s conversation. He had almost forgotten the Jade. It was nothing as compared to the tremendous issues that the Lama dealt in. Thought groped in an unseen future. The sensation was of waiting on the threshold of a new world—waiting to be born. The past lost all reality. The world he had known—war—selfishness—corruption—was a nightmare, wrought of hopelessness and full of useless aims. The future? It was his—his own—immensely personal to him. He was about to be born again into the old world, but with an utterly new consciousness of values. He knew he had a duty in the world; but he could not formulate it—would not know how to begin—only knew it was immensely dark and silent on the threshold.
The Lama’s voice broke silence, speaking to the chela somewhere in the pit below:
“The first duty of a chela is obedience!”
Silence again. Not even wind or rain to break the stillness. At last the Lama’s figure, like a shadow issuing from nothing, approaching along the ledge and sitting down near him—but not near enough for conversation. Then, after a very long pause, the chela’s voice, resonant and clear from somewhere in the distance:
“O Tsiang Samdup! I obey. And they obey me. May I wait until the dawn? It is not long.”
The Lama gave assent—one monosyllable—then groaned, and came and sat closer to Ommony.
“My work is done,” he said. “There is a limit to endurance.”
He glanced up at the sky, but there was no sign yet of dawn.
A low chant came from the distance—almost like the humming of a swarm of bees, but the Lama took no notice of it.