Kim

(Wow! That was a horse fit for a man!) I placed them in safety, and

back came I to my officer--the one that was not killed of our five.

"Give me work," said I, "for I am an outcast among my own kind, and my

cousin's blood is wet on my sabre." "Be content," said he. "There is

great work forward. When this madness is over there is a recompense."'

'Ay, there is a recompense when the madness is over, surely?' the lama

muttered half to himself.

'They did not hang medals in those days on all who by accident had

heard a gun fired. No! In nineteen pitched battles was I; in

six-and-forty skirmishes of horse; and in small affairs without number.

Nine wounds I bear; a medal and four clasps and the medal of an Order,

for my captains, who are now generals, remembered me when the

Kaisar-i-Hind had accomplished fifty years of her reign, and all the

land rejoiced. They said: "Give him the Order of Berittish India." I

carry it upon my neck now. I have also my jaghir [holding] from the

hands of the State--a free gift to me and mine. The men of the old

days--they are now Commissioners--come riding to me through the

crops--high upon horses so that all the village sees--and we talk out

the old skirmishes, one dead man's name leading to another.'

'And after?' said the lama.

'Oh, afterwards they go away, but not before my village has seen.'

'And at the last what wilt thou do?'

'At the last I shall die.'

'And after?'

'Let the Gods order it. I have never pestered Them with prayers. I do

not think They will pester me. Look you, I have noticed in my long

life that those who eternally break in upon Those Above with complaints

and reports and bellowings and weepings are presently sent for in

haste, as our Colonel used to send for slack-jawed down-country men who

talked too much. No, I have never wearied the Gods. They will

remember this, and give me a quiet place where I can drive my lance in

the shade, and wait to welcome my sons: I have no less than three

Rissaldar--majors all--in the regiments.'

'And they likewise, bound upon the Wheel, go forth from life to

life--from despair to despair,' said the lama below his breath, 'hot,

uneasy, snatching.'

'Ay,' the old soldier chuckled. 'Three Rissaldar--majors in three

regiments. Gamblers a little, but so am I. They must be well mounted;

and one cannot take the horses as in the old days one took women.

Well, well, my holding can pay for all. How thinkest thou? It is a

well-watered strip, but my men cheat me. I do not know how to ask save

at the lance's point. Ugh! I grow angry and I curse them, and they

feign penitence, but behind my back I know they call me a toothless old

ape.'

'Hast thou never desired any other thing?'

'Yes--yes--a thousand times! A straight back and a close-clinging knee

once more; a quick wrist and a keen eye; and the marrow that makes a

man. Oh, the old days--the good days of my strength!'

'That strength is weakness.'

'It has turned so; but fifty years since I could have proved it

otherwise,' the old soldier retorted, driving his stirrup-edge into the

pony's lean flank.

'But I know a River of great healing.'

'I have drank Gunga-water to the edge of dropsy. All she gave me was a

flux, and no sort of strength.'

'It is not Gunga. The River that I know washes from all taint of sin.

Ascending the far bank one is assured of Freedom. I do not know thy

life, but thy face is the face of the honourable and courteous. Thou

hast clung to thy Way, rendering fidelity when it was hard to give, in

that Black Year of which I now remember other tales. Enter now upon

the Middle Way which is the path to Freedom. Hear the Most Excellent

Law, and do not follow dreams.'

'Speak, then, old man,' the soldier smiled, half saluting. 'We be all

babblers at our age.'

The lama squatted under the shade of a mango, whose shadow played

checkerwise over his face; the soldier sat stiffly on the pony; and

Kim, making sure that there were no snakes, lay down in the crotch of

the twisted roots.

There was a drowsy buzz of small life in hot sunshine, a cooing of

doves, and a sleepy drone of well-wheels across the fields. Slowly and

impressively the lama began. At the end of ten minutes the old soldier

slid from his pony, to hear better as he said, and sat with the reins

round his wrist. The lama's voice faltered, the periods lengthened.

Kim was busy watching a grey squirrel. When the little scolding bunch

of fur, close pressed to the branch, disappeared, preacher and audience

were fast asleep, the old officer's strong-cut head pillowed on his

arm, the lama's thrown back against the tree-bole, where it showed like

yellow ivory. A naked child toddled up, stared, and, moved by some

quick impulse of reverence, made a solemn little obeisance before the

lama--only the child was so short and fat that it toppled over

sideways, and Kim laughed at the sprawling, chubby legs. The child,

scared and indignant, yelled aloud.

'Hai! Hai!' said the soldier, leaping to his feet. 'What is it? What

orders? ... It is ... a child! I dreamed it was an alarm. Little

one--little one--do not cry. Have I slept? That was discourteous

indeed!'

'I fear! I am afraid!' roared the child.

'What is it to fear? Two old men and a boy? How wilt thou ever make a

soldier, Princeling?'

The lama had waked too, but, taking no direct notice of the child,

clicked his rosary.

'What is that?' said the child, stopping a yell midway. 'I have never

seen such things. Give them me.'

'Aha.' said the lama, smiling, and trailing a loop of it on the grass:

This is a handful of cardamoms, This is a lump of ghi: This is millet

and chillies and rice, A supper for thee and me!

The child shrieked with joy, and snatched at the dark, glancing beads.

'Oho!' said the old soldier. 'Whence hadst thou that song, despiser

of this world?'

'I learned it in Pathankot--sitting on a doorstep,' said the lama

shyly. 'It is good to be kind to babes.'

'As I remember, before the sleep came on us, thou hadst told me that

marriage and bearing were darkeners of the true light, stumbling-blocks

upon the Way. Do children drop from Heaven in thy country? Is it the

Way to sing them songs?'

'No man is all perfect,' said the lama gravely, recoiling the rosary.

'Run now to thy mother, little one.'

'Hear him!' said the soldier to Kim. 'He is ashamed for that he has

made a child happy. There was a very good householder lost in thee, my

brother. Hai, child!' He threw it a pice. 'Sweetmeats are always

sweet.' And as the little figure capered away into the sunshine: 'They

grow up and become men. Holy One, I grieve that I slept in the midst

of thy preaching. Forgive me.'

'We be two old men,' said the lama. 'The fault is mine. I listened to

thy talk of the world and its madness, and one fault led to the next.'

'Hear him! What harm do thy Gods suffer from play with a babe? And

that song was very well sung. Let us go on and I will sing thee the

song of Nikal Seyn before Delhi--the old song.'

And they fared out from the gloom of the mango tope, the old man's

high, shrill voice ringing across the field, as wail by long-drawn wail

he unfolded the story of Nikal Seyn [Nicholson]--the song that men sing

in the Punjab to this day. Kim was delighted, and the lama listened

with deep interest.

'Ahi! Nikal Seyn is dead--he died before Delhi! Lances of the North,