not found my River—by assuring myself that thy feet are set on wisdom. What they will teach thee I do not know, but the priest wrote me that no son of a Sahib in all India will be better taught than thou. So from time to time, therefore, I will come again. Maybe thou wilt be such a Sahib as he who gave me these spectacles”—the lama wiped them elaborately—“in the Wonder House at Lahore. That is my hope, for he was a Fountain of Wisdom—wiser than many abbots. … Again, maybe thou wilt forget me and our meetings.”
“If I eat thy bread,” cried Kim passionately, “how shall I ever forget thee?”
“No—no.” He put the boy aside. “I must go back to Benares. From time to time, now that I know the customs of letter-writers in this land, I will send thee a letter, and from time to time I will come and see thee.”
“But whither shall I send my letters?” wailed Kim, clutching at the robe, all forgetful that he was a Sahib.
“To the Temple of the Tirthankars at Benares. That is the place I have chosen till I find my River. Do not weep; for, look you, all Desire is Illusion and a new binding upon the Wheel. Go up to the Gates of Learning. Let me see thee go … Dost thou love me? Then go, or my heart cracks … I will come again. Surely I will come again.”
The lama watched the ticca-gharri rumble into the compound, and strode off, snuffing between each long stride.
“The Gates of Learning” shut with a clang.
The country born and bred boy has his own manners and customs, which do not resemble those of any other land; and his teachers approach him by roads which an English master would not understand. Therefore, you would scarcely be interested in Kim’s experiences as a St.