finger in the dust, of the immense
and sumptuous ritual of avalanche-guarded cathedrals; of processions
and devil-dances; of the changing of monks and nuns into swine; of holy
cities fifteen thousand feet in the air; of intrigue between monastery
and monastery; of voices among the hills, and of that mysterious mirage
that dances on dry snow. He spoke even of Lhassa and of the Dalai
Lama, whom he had seen and adored.

Each long, perfect day rose behind Kim for a barrier to cut him off
from his race and his mother-tongue. He slipped back to thinking and
dreaming in the vernacular, and mechanically followed the lama's
ceremonial observances at eating, drinking, and the like. The old
man's mind turned more and more to his monastery as his eyes turned to
the steadfast snows. His River troubled him nothing. Now and again,
indeed, he would gaze long and long at a tuft or a twig, expecting, he
said, the earth to cleave and deliver its blessing; but he was content
to be with his disciple, at ease in the temperate wind that comes down
from the Doon. This was not Ceylon, nor Buddh Gaya, nor Bombay, nor
some grass-tangled ruins that he seemed to have stumbled upon two years
ago. He spoke of those places as a scholar removed from vanity, as a
Seeker walking in humility, as an old man, wise and temperate,
illumining knowledge with brilliant insight. Bit by bit,
disconnectedly, each tale called up by some wayside thing, he spoke of
all his wanderings up and down Hind; till Kim, who had loved him
without reason, now loved him for fifty good reasons. So they enjoyed
themselves in high felicity, abstaining, as the Rule demands, from evil
words, covetous desires; not over-eating, not lying on high beds, nor
wearing rich clothes. Their stomachs told them the time, and the
people brought them their food, as the saying is. They were lords of
the villages of Aminabad, Sahaigunge, Akrola of the Ford, and little
Phulesa, where Kim gave the soulless woman a blessing.

But news travels fast in India, and too soon shuffled across the
crop-land, bearing a basket of fruits with a box of Kabul grapes and
gilt oranges, a white-whiskered servitor--a lean, dry Oorya--begging
them to bring the honour of their presence to his mistress, distressed
in her mind that the lama had neglected her so long.

'Now do I remember'--the lama spoke as though it were a wholly new
proposition. 'She is virtuous, but an inordinate talker.'

Kim was sitting