“What did I say, sar!” The Babu seemed to be in tears. “Come down here and assist to resuscitate. We are all up a tree, I tell you.”
The shots ceased. There was a sound of stumbling feet, and Kim hurried upward through the gloom, swearing like a cat—or a country-bred.
“Did they wound thee, chela ?” called the lama above him.
“No. And thou?” He dived into a clump of stunted firs.
“Unhurt. Come away. We go with these folk to Shamlegh-under-the-Snow.”
“But not before we have done justice,” a voice cried. “I have got the Sahibs’ guns—all four. Let us go down.”
“He struck the Holy One—we saw it! Our cattle will be barren—our wives will cease to bear! The snows will slide upon us as we go home … On top of all other oppression too!”
The little fir-clump filled with clamouring coolies—panic-stricken, and in their terror capable of anything. The man from Ao-chung clicked the breech-bolt of his gun impatiently, and made as to go downhill.
“Wait a little, Holy One; they cannot go far. Wait till I return,” said he.
“It is this person who has suffered wrong,” said the lama, his hand over his brow.
“For that very reason,” was the reply.
“If this person overlooks it, your hands are clean. Moreover, ye acquire merit by obedience.”