Kim

appreciative instinct of a craftsman.

Incident by incident in the beautiful story he identified on the

blurred stone, puzzled here and there by the unfamiliar Greek

convention, but delighted as a child at each new trove. Where the

sequence failed, as in the Annunciation, the Curator supplied it from

his mound of books--French and German, with photographs and

reproductions.

Here was the devout Asita, the pendant of Simeon in the Christian

story, holding the Holy Child on his knee while mother and father

listened; and here were incidents in the legend of the cousin

Devadatta. Here was the wicked woman who accused the Master of

impurity, all confounded; here was the teaching in the Deer-park; the

miracle that stunned the fire-worshippers; here was the Bodhisat in

royal state as a prince; the miraculous birth; the death at Kusinagara,

where the weak disciple fainted; while there were almost countless

repetitions of the meditation under the Bodhi tree; and the adoration

of the alms-bowl was everywhere. In a few minutes the Curator saw that

his guest was no mere bead-telling mendicant, but a scholar of parts.

And they went at it all over again, the lama taking snuff, wiping his

spectacles, and talking at railway speed in a bewildering mixture of

Urdu and Tibetan. He had heard of the travels of the Chinese pilgrims,

Fu-Hiouen and Hwen-Tsiang, and was anxious to know if there was any

translation of their record. He drew in his breath as he turned

helplessly over the pages of Beal and Stanislas Julien. ''Tis all

here. A treasure locked.' Then he composed himself reverently to

listen to fragments hastily rendered into Urdu. For the first time he

heard of the labours of European scholars, who by the help of these and

a hundred other documents have identified the Holy Places of Buddhism.

Then he was shown a mighty map, spotted and traced with yellow. The

brown finger followed the Curator's pencil from point to point. Here

was Kapilavastu, here the Middle Kingdom, and here Mahabodhi, the Mecca

of Buddhism; and here was Kusinagara, sad place of the Holy One's

death. The old man bowed his head over the sheets in silence for a

while, and the Curator lit another pipe. Kim had fallen asleep. When

he waked, the talk, still in spate, was more within his comprehension.

'And thus it was, O Fountain of Wisdom, that I decided to go to the

Holy Places which His foot had trod--to the Birthplace, even to Kapila;

then to Mahabodhi, which is Buddh Gaya--to the Monastery--to the

Deer-park--to the place of His death.'

The lama lowered his voice. 'And I come here alone. For

five--seven--eighteen--forty years it was in my mind that the Old Law

was not well followed; being overlaid, as thou knowest, with devildom,

charms, and idolatry. Even as the child outside said but now. Ay,

even as the child said, with but-parasti.'

'So it comes with all faiths.'

'Thinkest thou? The books of my lamassery I read, and they were dried

pith; and the later ritual with which we of the Reformed Law have

cumbered ourselves--that, too, had no worth to these old eyes. Even

the followers of the Excellent One are at feud on feud with one

another. It is all illusion. Ay, maya, illusion. But I have another

desire'--the seamed yellow face drew within three inches of the

Curator, and the long forefinger-nail tapped on the table. 'Your

scholars, by these books, have followed the Blessed Feet in all their

wanderings; but there are things which they have not sought out. I

know nothing--nothing do I know--but I go to free myself from the Wheel

of Things by a broad and open road.' He smiled with most simple

triumph. 'As a pilgrim to the Holy Places I acquire merit. But there

is more. Listen to a true thing. When our gracious Lord, being as yet

a youth, sought a mate, men said, in His father's Court, that He was

too tender for marriage. Thou knowest?'

The Curator nodded, wondering what would come next.

'So they made the triple trial of strength against all comers. And at

the test of the Bow, our Lord first breaking that which they gave Him,

called for such a bow as none might bend. Thou knowest?'

'It is written. I have read.'

'And, overshooting all other marks, the arrow passed far and far beyond

sight. At the last it fell; and, where it touched earth, there broke

out a stream which presently became a River, whose nature, by our

Lord's beneficence, and that merit He acquired ere He freed himself, is

that whoso bathes in it washes away all taint and speckle of sin.'

'So it is written,' said the Curator sadly.

The lama drew a long breath. 'Where is that River? Fountain of

Wisdom, where fell the arrow?'

'Alas, my brother, I do not know,' said the Curator.

'Nay, if it please thee to forget--the one thing only that thou hast

not told me. Surely thou must know? See, I am an old man! I ask with

my head between thy feet, O Fountain of Wisdom. We know He drew the

bow! We know the arrow fell! We know the stream gushed! Where, then,

is the River? My dream told me to find it. So I came. I am here. But

where is the River?'

'If I knew, think you I would not cry it aloud?'

'By it one attains freedom from the Wheel of Things,' the lama went on,

unheeding. 'The River of the Arrow! Think again! Some little stream,

maybe--dried in the heats? But the Holy One would never so cheat an

old man.'

'I do not know. I do not know.'

The lama brought his thousand-wrinkled face once more a handsbreadth

from the Englishman's. 'I see thou dost not know. Not being of the

Law, the matter is hid from thee.'

'Ay--hidden--hidden.'

'We are both bound, thou and I, my brother. But I'--he rose with a

sweep of the soft thick drapery--'I go to cut myself free. Come also!'

'I am bound,' said the Curator. 'But whither goest thou?'

'First to Kashi [Benares]: where else? There I shall meet one of the

pure faith in a Jain temple of that city. He also is a Seeker in

secret, and from him haply I may learn. Maybe he will go with me to

Buddh Gaya. Thence north and west to Kapilavastu, and there will I

seek for the River. Nay, I will seek everywhere as I go--for the place

is not known where the arrow fell.'

'And how wilt thou go? It is a far cry to Delhi, and farther to

Benares.'

'By road and the trains. From Pathankot, having left the Hills, I came

hither in a te-rain. It goes swiftly. At first I was amazed to see

those tall poles by the side of the road snatching up and snatching up

their threads,'--he illustrated the stoop and whirl of a telegraph-pole

flashing past the train. 'But later, I was cramped and desired to

walk, as I am used.'

'And thou art sure of thy road?' said the Curator.

'Oh, for that one but asks a question and pays money, and the appointed

persons despatch all to the appointed place. That much I knew in my

lamassery from sure report,' said the lama proudly.

'And when dost thou go?' The Curator smiled at the mixture of

old-world piety and modern progress that is the note of India today.

'As soon as may be. I follow the places of His life till I come to the

River of the Arrow. There is, moreover, a written paper of the hours

of the trains that go south.'

'And for food?' Lamas, as a rule, have good store of money somewhere

about them, but the Curator wished to make sure.

'For the journey, I take up the Master's begging-bowl. Yes. Even as

He went so go I, forsaking the ease of my monastery. There was with me

when I left the hills a chela [disciple] who begged for me as the Rule