I

“God’s curse on all unbelievers!” said Mahbub. “I do not give to a lousy Tibetan; but ask my Baltis over yonder behind the camels. They may value your blessings. Oh, horse-boys, here is a countryman of yours. See if he be hungry.”

A shaven, crouching Balti, who had come down with the horses, and who was nominally some sort of degraded Buddhist, fawned upon the priest, and in thick gutturals besought the Holy One to sit at the horse-boys’ fire.

“Go!” said Kim, pushing him lightly, and the lama strode away, leaving Kim at the edge of the cloister.

“Go!” said Mahbub Ali, returning to his hookah. “Little Hindu, run away. God’s curse on all unbelievers! Beg from those of my tail who are of thy faith.”

“Maharaj,” whined Kim, using the Hindu form of address, and thoroughly enjoying the situation; “my father is dead⁠—my mother is dead⁠—my stomach is empty.”

“Beg from my men among the horses, I say. There must be some Hindus in my tail.”

“Oh, Mahbub Ali, but am I a Hindu?” said Kim in English.

The trader gave no sign of astonishment, but looked under shaggy eyebrows.

“Little Friend of all the World,” said he, “what is this?”

“Nothing. I am now that holy man’s disciple; and we go a pilgrimage together⁠—to Benares, he says. He is quite mad, and I am tired of Lahore city. I wish new air and water.”