The woman snatched it angrily. “I was foolish,” said she. “Who is thy woman in the Plains? Fair or black? I was fair once. Laughest thou? Once, long ago, if thou canst believe, a Sahib looked on me with favour. Once, long ago, I wore European clothes at the Mission-house yonder.” She pointed towards Kotgarh. “Once, long ago. I was _Ker-lis-ti-an_ and spoke English—as the Sahibs speak it. Yes. My Sahib said he would return and wed me—yes, wed me. He went away—I had nursed him when he was sick—but he never returned. Then I saw that the Gods of the Kerlistians lied, and I went back to my own people ... I have never set eyes on a Sahib since. (Do not laugh at me. The fit is past, little priestling.) Thy face and thy walk and thy fashion of speech put me in mind of my Sahib, though thou art only a wandering mendicant to whom I give a dole. Curse me? Thou canst neither curse nor bless!” She set her hands on her hips and laughed bitterly. “Thy Gods are lies; thy works are lies; thy words are lies. There are no Gods under all the Heavens. I know it ... But for awhile I thought it was my Sahib come back, and he was my God. Yes, once I made music on a _pianno_ in the Mission-house at Kotgarh. Now I give alms to priests who are _heatthen_.” She wound up with the English word, and tied the mouth of the brimming bag. “I wait for thee, _chela_,” said the lama, leaning against the door-post. The woman swept the tall figure with her eyes. “He walk! He cannot cover half a mile. Whither would old bones go?” At this Kim, already perplexed by the lama’s collapse and foreseeing the weight of the bag, fairly lost his temper. “What is it to thee, woman of ill-omen, where he goes?” “Nothing—but something to thee, priest with a Sahib’s face. Wilt thou carry him on thy shoulders?” “I go to the Plains. None must hinder my return. I have wrestled with my soul till I am strengthless. The stupid body is spent, and we are far from the Plains.” “Behold!” she said simply, and drew aside to let Kim see his own utter helplessness. “Curse me. Maybe it will give him strength. Make a charm! Call on thy great God. Thou art a priest.” She turned away. The lama had squatted limply, still holding by the door-post. One cannot strike down an old man that he recovers again like a boy in the night. Weakness bowed him to the earth, but his eyes that hung on Kim were alive and imploring. “It is all well,” said Kim. “It is the thin air that weakens thee. In a little while we go! It is the mountain-sickness. I too am a little sick at stomach,”—and he knelt and comforted with such poor words as came first to his lips. Then the woman returned, more erect than ever.