I

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: 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 Pathânkot, 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.