“Well is the Game called great! I was four days a scullion at Quetta, waiting on the wife of the man whose book I stole. And that was part of the Great Game! From the South—God knows how far—came up the Mahratta, playing the Great Game in fear of his life. Now I shall go far and far into the North playing the Great Game. Truly, it runs like a shuttle throughout all Hind. And my share and my joy”—he smiled to the darkness—“I owe to the lama here. Also to Mahbub Ali—also to Creighton Sahib, but chiefly to the Holy One. He is right—a great and a wonderful world—and I am Kim—Kim—Kim—alone—one person—in the middle of it all. But I will see these strangers with their levels and chains...” “What was the upshot of last night’s babble?” said the lama, after his orisons. “There came a strolling seller of drugs—a hanger-on of the Sahiba’s. Him I abolished by arguments and prayers, proving that our charms are worthier than his coloured waters.” “Alas, my charms! Is the virtuous woman still bent upon a new one?” “Very strictly.” “Then it must be written, or she will deafen me with her clamour.” He fumbled at his pencase. “In the Plains,” said Kim, “are always too many people. In the Hills, as I understand, there are fewer.” “Oh! the Hills, and the snows upon the Hills.” The lami tore off a tiny square of paper fit to go in an amulet. “But what dost thou know of the Hills?” “They are very close.” Kim thrust open the door and looked at the long, peaceful line of the Himalayas flushed in morning-gold. “Except in the dress of a Sahib, I have never set foot among them.” The lama snuffed the wind wistfully. “If we go North,”—Kim put the question to the waking sunrise—“would not much mid-day heat be avoided by walking among the lower hills at least? ... Is the charm made, Holy One?” “I have written the names of seven silly devils—not one of whom is worth a grain of dust in the eye. Thus do foolish women drag us from the Way!”