The horse-trader, his deep, embroidered Bokhariot belt unloosed, was lying on a pair of silk carpet saddle-bags, pulling lazily at an immense silver hookah. He turned his head very slightly at the cry; and seeing only the tall silent figure, chuckled in his deep chest. “Allah! A lama! A Red Lama! It is far from Lahore to the Passes. What dost thou do here?” The lama held out the begging-bowl mechanically. “God’s curse on all unbelievers!” said Mahbub. “I do not give to a lousy Tibetan; but ask my Baltis over yonder behind the camels. They may value your blessings. Oh, horseboys, here is a countryman of yours. See if he be hungry.” A shaven, crouching Balti, who had come down with the horses, and who was nominally some sort of degraded Buddhist, fawned upon the priest, and in thick gutturals besought the Holy One to sit at the horseboys’ fire. “Go!” said Kim, pushing him lightly, and the lama strode away, leaving Kim at the edge of the cloister. “Go!” said Mahbub Ali, returning to his hookah. “Little Hindu, run away. God’s curse on all unbelievers! Beg from those of my tail who are of thy faith.” “Maharaj,” whined Kim, using the Hindu form of address, and thoroughly enjoying the situation; “my father is dead—my mother is dead—my stomach is empty.” “Beg from my men among the horses, I say. There must be some Hindus in my tail.” “Oh, Mahbub Ali, but am _I_ a Hindu?” said Kim in English. The trader gave no sign of astonishment, but looked under shaggy eyebrows. “Little Friend of all the World,” said he, “what is this?” “Nothing. I am now that holy man’s disciple; and we go a pilgrimage together—to Benares, he says. He is quite mad, and I am tired of Lahore city. I wish new air and water.” “But for whom dost thou work? Why come to me?” The voice was harsh with suspicion. “To whom else should I come? I have no money. It is not good to go about without money. Thou wilt sell many horses to the officers. They are very fine horses, these new ones: I have seen them. Give me a rupee, Mahbub Ali, and when I come to my wealth I will give thee a bond and pay.” “Um!” said Mahbub Ali, thinking swiftly. “Thou hast never before lied to me. Call that lama—stand back in the dark.” “Oh, our tales will agree,” said Kim, laughing. “We go to Benares,” said the lama, as soon as he understood the drift of Mahbub Ali’s questions. “The boy and I, I go to seek for a certain River.” “Maybe—but the boy?” “He is my disciple. He was sent, I think, to guide me to that River. Sitting under a gun was I when he came suddenly. Such things have befallen the fortunate to whom guidance was allowed. But I remember now, he said he was of this world—a Hindu.” “And his name?” “That I did not ask. Is he not my disciple?” “His country—his race—his village? Mussalman—Sikh Hindu—Jain—low caste or high?”