“With our long pencases as I could have shown ... I say, we fought under the poplars, both Abbots and all the monks, and one laid open my forehead to the bone. See!” He tilted back his cap and showed a puckered silvery scar. “Just and perfect is the Wheel! Yesterday the scar itched, and after fifty years I recalled how it was dealt and the face of him who dealt it; dwelling a little in illusion. Followed that which thou didst see—strife and stupidity. Just is the Wheel! The idolater’s blow fell upon the scar. Then I was shaken in my soul: my soul was darkened, and the boat of my soul rocked upon the waters of illusion. Not till I came to Shamlegh could I meditate upon the Cause of Things, or trace the running grass-roots of Evil. I strove all the long night.” “But, Holy One, thou art innocent of all evil. May I be thy sacrifice!” Kim was genuinely distressed at the old man’s sorrow, and Mahbub Ali’s phrase slipped out unawares. “In the dawn,” the lama went on more gravely, ready rosary clicking between the slow sentences, “came enlightenment. It is here ... I am an old man ... hill-bred, hill-fed, never to sit down among my Hills. Three years I travelled through Hind, but—can earth be stronger than Mother Earth? My stupid body yearned to the Hills and the snows of the Hills, from below there. I said, and it is true, my Search is sure. So, at the Kulu woman’s house I turned hillward, over-persuaded by myself. There is no blame to the _hakim_. He—following Desire—foretold that the Hills would make me strong. They strengthened me to do evil, to forget my Search. I delighted in life and the lust of life. I desired strong slopes to climb. I cast about to find them. I measured the strength of my body, which is evil, against the high Hills, I made a mock of thee when thy breath came short under Jamnotri. I jested when thou wouldst not face the snow of the pass.” “But what harm? I _was_ afraid. It was just. I am not a hillman; and I loved thee for thy new strength.” “More than once I remember”—he rested his cheek dolefully on his hand—“I sought thy praise and the _hakim’s_ for the mere strength of my legs. Thus evil followed evil till the cup was full. Just is the Wheel! All Hind for three years did me all honour. From the Fountain of Wisdom in the Wonder House to”—he smiled—“a little child playing by a big gun—the world prepared my road. And why?” “Because we loved thee. It is only the fever of the blow. I myself am still sick and shaken.” “No! It was because I was upon the Way—tuned as are _si-nen_ (cymbals) to the purpose of the Law. I departed from that ordinance. The tune was broken: followed the punishment. In my own Hills, on the edge of my own country, in the very place of my evil desire, comes the buffet—here!” (He touched his brow.) “As a novice is beaten when he misplaces the cups, so am I beaten, who was Abbot of Such-zen. No word, look you, but a blow, _chela_.” “But the Sahibs did not know thee, Holy One?”