Hereat, simply as a child engrossed with a new game, the lama threw back his head and began the full-throated invocation of the Doctor of Divinity ere he opens the full doctrine. The strangers leaned on their alpenstocks and listened. Kim, squatting humbly, watched the red sunlight on their faces, and the blend and parting of their long shadows. They wore un-English leggings and curious girt-in belts that reminded him hazily of the pictures in a book in St Xavier’s library ‘_The Adventures of a Young Naturalist in Mexico_’ was its name. Yes, they looked very like the wonderful M. Sumichrast of that tale, and very unlike the “highly unscrupulous folk” of Hurree Babu’s imagining. The coolies, earth-coloured and mute, crouched reverently some twenty or thirty yards away, and the Babu, the slack of his thin gear snapping like a marking-flag in the chill breeze, stood by with an air of happy proprietorship. “These are the men,” Hurree whispered, as the ritual went on and the two whites followed the grass-blade sweeping from Hell to Heaven and back again. “All their books are in the large _kilta_ with the reddish top—books and reports and maps—and I have seen a King’s letter that either Hilás or Bunár has written. They guard it most carefully. They have sent nothing back from Hilás or Leh. That is sure.” “Who is with them?” “Only the _beegar_-coolies. They have no servants. They are so close they cook their own food.” “But what am I to do?” “Wait and see. Only if any chance comes to me thou wilt know where to seek for the papers.” “This were better in Mahbub Ali’s hands than a Bengali’s,” said Kim scornfully. “There are more ways of getting to a sweetheart than butting down a wall.” “See here the Hell appointed for avarice and greed. Flanked upon the one side by Desire and on the other by Weariness.” The lama warmed to his work, and one of the strangers sketched him in the quick-fading light. “That is enough,” the man said at last brusquely. “I cannot understand him, but I want that picture. He is a better artist than I. Ask him if he will sell it.” “He says ‘No, sar,’” the Babu replied. The lama, of course, would no more have parted with his chart to a casual wayfarer than an archbishop would pawn the holy vessels of his cathedral. All Tibet is full of cheap reproductions of the Wheel; but the lama was an artist, as well as a wealthy Abbot in his own place. “Perhaps in three days, or four, or ten, if I perceive that the Sahib is a Seeker and of good understanding, I may myself draw him another. But _this_ was used for the initiation of a novice. Tell him so, _hakim_.” “He wishes it now—for money.”