close pressed to the branch, disappeared, preacher and audience were fast asleep, the old officer’s strong-cut head pillowed on his arm, the lama’s thrown back against the tree-bole, where it showed like yellow ivory. A naked child toddled up, stared, and, moved by some quick impulse of reverence, made a solemn little obeisance before the lama—only the child was so short and fat that it toppled over sideways, and Kim laughed at the sprawling, chubby legs. The child, scared and indignant, yelled aloud.
“Hai! Hai!” said the soldier, leaping to his feet. “What is it? What orders? … It is … a child! I dreamed it was an alarm. Little one—little one—do not cry. Have I slept? That was discourteous indeed!”
“I fear! I am afraid!” roared the child.
“What is it to fear? Two old men and a boy? How wilt thou ever make a soldier, Princeling?”
The lama had waked too, but, taking no direct notice of the child, clicked his rosary.
“What is that?” said the child, stopping a yell midway. “I have never seen such things. Give them me.”
“Aha,” said the lama, smiling, and trailing a loop of it on the grass:
This is a handful of cardamoms, This is a lump of ghi : This is millet and chillies and rice, A supper for thee and me!
The child shrieked with joy, and snatched at the dark, glancing beads.
“Oho!” said the old soldier. “Whence hadst thou that song, despiser of this world?”