The man halted as though struck to stone. “I—I—am saved from a great sin,” he stammered.
“The foreigner has found him a priest at last,” whispered one of the Ooryas.
“Hai! Why is that beggar-brat not well beaten?” the old woman cried.
The hillman drew back to the cart and whispered something to the curtain. There was dead silence, then a muttering.
“This goes well,” thought Kim, pretending neither to see nor hear.
“When—when—he has eaten”—the hillman fawned on Kim—“it—it is requested that the Holy One will do the honour to talk to one who would speak to him.”
“After he has eaten he will sleep,” Kim returned loftily. He could not quite see what new turn the game had taken, but stood resolute to profit by it. “Now I will get him his food.” The last sentence, spoken loudly, ended with a sigh as of faintness.
“I—I myself and the others of my people will look to that—if it is permitted.”
“It is permitted,” said Kim, more loftily than ever. “Holy One, these people will bring us food.”
“The land is good. All the country of the South is good—a great and a terrible world,” mumbled the lama drowsily.
“Let him sleep,” said Kim, “but look to it that we are well fed when he wakes. He is a very holy man.”
Again one of the Ooryas said something contemptuously.