Hurree Babu stepped back a pace or two into the crowd at the entrance of Lucknow station and—was gone. Kim drew a deep breath and hugged himself all over. The nickel-plated revolver he could feel in the bosom of his sad-coloured robe, the amulet was on his neck; begging-gourd, rosary, and ghost-dagger (Mr Lurgan had forgotten nothing) were all to hand, with medicine, paint-box, and compass, and in a worn old purse-belt embroidered with porcupine-quill patterns lay a month’s pay. Kings could be no richer. He bought sweetmeats in a leaf-cup from a Hindu trader, and ate them with glad rapture till a policeman ordered him off the steps. CHAPTER XI Give the man who is not made To his trade Swords to fling and catch again, Coins to ring and snatch again, Men to harm and cure again, Snakes to charm and lure again— He’ll be hurt by his own blade, By his serpents disobeyed, By his clumsiness bewrayed,” By the people mocked to scorn— So ’tis not with juggler born! Pinch of dust or withered flower, Chance-flung fruit or borrowed staff, Serve his need and shore his power, Bind the spell, or loose the laugh! _But a man who, etc._, Op. 15 Followed a sudden natural reaction. “Now am I alone—all alone,” he thought. “In all India is no one so alone as I! If I die today, who shall bring the news—and to whom? If I live and God is good, there will be a price upon my head, for I am a Son of the Charm—I, Kim.” A very few white people, but many Asiatics, can throw themselves into a mazement as it were by repeating their own names over and over again to themselves, letting the mind go free upon speculation as to what is called personal identity. When one grows older, the power, usually, departs, but while it lasts it may descend upon a man at any moment. “Who is Kim—Kim—Kim?” He squatted in a corner of the clanging waiting-room, rapt from all other thoughts; hands folded in lap, and pupils contracted to pin-points. In a minute—in another half-second—he felt he would arrive at the solution of the tremendous puzzle; but here, as always happens, his mind dropped away from those heights with a rush of a wounded bird, and passing his hand before his eyes, he shook his head. A long-haired Hindu _bairagi_ (holy man), who had just bought a ticket, halted before him at that moment and stared intently. “I also have lost it,” he said sadly. “It is one of the Gates to the Way, but for me it has been shut many years.” “What is the talk?” said Kim, abashed. “Thou wast wondering there in thy spirit what manner of thing thy soul might be. The seizure came of a sudden. _I_ know. Who should know but I? Whither goest thou?” “Toward Kashi [Benares].” “There are no Gods there. I have proved them. I go to Prayag [Allahabad] for the fifth time—seeking the Road to Enlightenment. Of what faith art thou?”