“We Jats are all buffaloes,” said the Kamboh, softening anew. Kim rubbed a finger-tip of bitterness on the child’s trusting little lips. “I have asked for nothing,” he said sternly to the father, “except food. Dost thou grudge me that? I go to heal another man. Have I thy leave—Prince?” Up flew the man’s huge paws in supplication. “Nay—nay. Do not mock me thus.” “It pleases me to cure this sick one. Thou shalt acquire merit by aiding. What colour ash is there in thy pipe-bowl? White. That is auspicious. Was there raw turmeric among thy foodstuffs?” “I—I—” “Open thy bundle!” It was the usual collection of small oddments: bits of cloth, quack medicines, cheap fairings, a clothful of _atta_—greyish, rough-ground native flour—twists of down-country tobacco, tawdry pipe-stems, and a packet of curry-stuff, all wrapped in a quilt. Kim turned it over with the air of a wise warlock, muttering a Mohammedan invocation. “This is wisdom I learned from the Sahibs,” he whispered to the lama; and here, when one thinks of his training at Lurgan’s, he spoke no more than the truth. “There is a great evil in this man’s fortune, as shown by the Stars, which—which troubles him. Shall I take it away?” “Friend of the Stars, thou hast done well in all things. Let it be at thy pleasure. Is it another healing?” “Quick! Be quick!” gasped the Mahratta. “The train may stop.” “A healing against the shadow of death,” said Kim, mixing the Kamboh’s flour with the mingled charcoal and tobacco ash in the red-earth bowl of the pipe. E, without a word, slipped off his turban and shook down his long black hair. “That is my food—priest,” the jat growled. “A buffalo in the temple! Hast thou dared to look even thus far?” said Kim. “I must do mysteries before fools; but have a care for thine eyes. Is there a film before them already? I save the babe, and for return thou—oh, shameless!” The man flinched at the direct gaze, for Kim was wholly in earnest. “Shall I curse thee, or shall I—” He picked up the outer cloth of the bundle and threw it over the bowed head. “Dare so much as to think a wish to see, and—and—even I cannot save thee. Sit! Be dumb!” “I am blind—dumb. Forbear to curse! Co—come, child; we will play a game of hiding. Do not, for my sake, look from under the cloth.” “I see hope,” said E23. “What is thy scheme?” “This comes next,” said Kim, plucking the thin body-shirt. E23 hesitated, with all a North-West man’s dislike of baring his body. “What is caste to a cut throat?” said Kim, rending it to the waist. “We must make thee a yellow Saddhu all over. Strip—strip swiftly, and shake thy hair over thine eyes while I scatter the ash. Now, a caste-mark on thy forehead.” He drew from his bosom the little Survey paint-box and a cake of crimson lake. “Art thou only a beginner?” said E23, labouring literally for the dear life, as he slid out of his body-wrappings and stood clear in the loin-cloth while Kim splashed in a noble caste-mark on the ash-smeared brow.