“Thy mind is set on things unworthy. But she has skill. I am refreshed all over. When we reach the lower hills I shall be yet stronger. The _hakim_ spoke truly to me this morn when he said a breath from the snows blows away twenty years from the life of a man. We will go up into the Hills—the high hills—up to the sound of snow-waters and the sound of the trees—for a little while. The _hakim_ said that at any time we may return to the Plains, for we do no more than skirt the pleasant places. The _hakim_ is full of learning; but he is in no way proud. I spoke to him—when thou wast talking to the Sahiba—of a certain dizziness that lays hold upon the back of my neck in the night, and he said it rose from excessive heat—to be cured by cool air. Upon consideration, I marvelled that I had not thought of such a simple remedy.” “Didst thou tell him of thy Search?” said Kim, a little jealously. He preferred to sway the lama by his own speech—not through the wiles of Hurree Babu. “Assuredly. I told him of my dream, and of the manner by which I had acquired merit by causing thee to be taught wisdom.” “Thou didst not say I was a Sahib?” “What need? I have told thee many times we be but two souls seeking escape. He said—and he is just herein—that the River of Healing will break forth even as I dreamed—at my feet, if need be. Having found the Way, seest thou, that shall free me from the Wheel, need I trouble to find a way about the mere fields of earth—which are illusion? That were senseless. I have my dreams, night upon night repeated; I have _Jâtaka;_ and I have thee, Friend of all the World. It was written in thy horoscope that a Red Bull on a green field—I have not forgotten—should bring thee to honour. Who but I saw that prophecy accomplished? Indeed, I was the instrument. Thou shalt find me my River, being in return the instrument. The Search is sure!” He set his ivory-yellow face, serene and untroubled, towards the beckoning Hills; his shadow shouldering far before him in the dust. CHAPTER XIII Who hath desired the Sea—the immense and contemptuous surges? The shudder, the stumble, the swerve ere the star-stabbing bowsprit merges— The orderly clouds of the Trades and the ridged roaring sapphire thereunder— Unheralded cliff-lurking flaws and the head-sails’ low-volleying thunder? His Sea in no wonder the same—his Sea and the same in each wonder— His Sea that his being fulfils? So and no otherwise—so and no otherwise hill-men desire their hills! The Sea and the Hills. “Who goes to the hills goes to his mother.”