It was an old, withered man, who had served the Government in the days of the Mutiny as a native officer in a newly raised cavalry regiment. The Government had given him a good holding in the village, and though the demands of his sons, now grey-bearded officers on their own account, had impoverished him, he was still a person of consequence. English officials—Deputy Commissioners even—turned aside from the main road to visit him, and on those occasions he dressed himself in the uniform of ancient days, and stood up like a ramrod.
“But this shall be a great war—a war of eight thousand.” Kim’s voice shrilled across the quick-gathering crowd, astonishing himself.
“Redcoats or our own regiments?” the old man snapped, as though he were asking an equal. His tone made men respect Kim.
“Redcoats,” said Kim at a venture. “Redcoats and guns.”
“But—but the astrologer said no word of this,” cried the lama, snuffing prodigiously in his excitement.
“But I know. The word has come to me, who am this Holy One’s disciple. There will rise a war—a war of eight thousand redcoats. From Pindi and Peshawur they will be drawn. This is sure.”
“The boy has heard bazaar-talk,” said the priest.
“But he was always by my side,” said the lama. “How should he know? I did not know.”
“He will make a clever juggler when the old man is dead,” muttered the priest to the headman. “What new trick is this?”
“A sign. Give me a sign,” thundered the old soldier suddenly. “If there were war my sons would have told me.”