The men pick up the dooli and swing out of sight between the scrub clumps.
The lama raises a hand toward the rampart of the Himalayas. “Not with you, O blessed among all hills, fell the Arrow of Our Lord! And never shall I breathe your airs again!”
“But thou art ten times the stronger man in this good air,” says Kim, for to his wearied soul appeal the well-cropped, kindly Plains. “Here, or hereabouts, fell the Arrow, yes. We will go very softly, perhaps, a kos a day, for the Search is sure. But the bag weighs heavy.”
“Ay, our Search is sure. I have come out of great temptation.”
It was never more than a couple of miles a day now, and Kim’s shoulders bore all the weight of it—the burden of an old man, the burden of the heavy food-bag with the locked books, the load of the writings on his heart, and the details of the daily routine. He begged in the dawn, set blankets for the lama’s meditation, held the weary head on his lap through the noonday heats, fanning away the flies till his wrists ached, begged again in the evenings, and rubbed the lama’s feet, who rewarded him with promise of Freedom—today, tomorrow, or, at furthest, the next day.
“Never was such a chela . I doubt at times whether Ananda more faithfully nursed Our Lord. And thou art a Sahib? When I was a man—a long time ago—I forgot that. Now I look upon thee often, and every time I remember that thou art a Sahib. It is strange.”
“Thou hast said there is neither black nor white. Why plague me with this talk, Holy One? Let me rub the other foot. It vexes me. I am not a Sahib. I am thy chela , and my head is heavy on my shoulders.”