“It is all well,” said Kim. “It is the thin air that weakens thee. In a little while we go! It is the mountain-sickness. I too am a little sick at stomach,” … and he knelt and comforted with such poor words as came first to his lips. Then the woman returned, more erect than ever.
“Thy Gods useless, heh? Try mine. I am the Woman of Shamlegh.” She hailed hoarsely, and there came out of a cow-pen her two husbands and three others with a dooli , the rude native litter of the Hills, that they use for carrying the sick and for visits of state. “These cattle”—she did not condescend to look at them—“are thine for so long as thou shalt need.”
“But we will not go Simla-way. We will not go near the Sahibs,” cried the first husband.
“They will not run away as the others did, nor will they steal baggage. Two I know for weaklings. Stand to the rear-pole, Sonoo and Taree.” They obeyed swiftly. “Lower now, and lift in that holy man. I will see to the village and your virtuous wives till ye return.”
“When will that be?”
“Ask the priests. Do not pester me. Lay the food-bag at the foot, it balances better so.”
“Oh, Holy One, thy Hills are kinder than our Plains!” cried Kim, relieved, as the lama tottered to the litter. “It is a very king’s bed—a place of honour and ease. And we owe it to—”
“A woman of ill-omen. I need thy blessings as much as I do thy curses. It is my order and none of thine. Lift and away! Here! Hast thou money for the road?”
She beckoned Kim to her hut, and stooped above a battered English cashbox under her cot.