There was a drowsy buzz of small life in hot sunshine, a cooing of doves, and a sleepy drone of well-wheels across the fields. Slowly and impressively the lama began. At the end of ten minutes the old soldier slid from his pony, to hear better as he said, and sat with the reins round his wrist. The lama’s voice faltered, the periods lengthened. Kim was busy watching a grey squirrel. When the little scolding bunch of fur, close pressed to the branch, disappeared, preacher and audience were fast asleep, the old officer’s strong-cut head pillowed on his arm, the lama’s thrown back against the tree-bole, where it showed like yellow ivory. A naked child toddled up, stared, and, moved by some quick impulse of reverence, made a solemn little obeisance before the lama—only the child was so short and fat that it toppled over sideways, and Kim laughed at the sprawling, chubby legs. The child, scared and indignant, yelled aloud. “Hai! Hai!” said the soldier, leaping to his feet. “What is it? What orders? ... It is ... a child! I dreamed it was an alarm. Little one—little one—do not cry. Have I slept? That was discourteous indeed!” “I fear! I am afraid!” roared the child. “What is it to fear? Two old men and a boy? How wilt thou ever make a soldier, Princeling?” The lama had waked too, but, taking no direct notice of the child, clicked his rosary. “What is that?” said the child, stopping a yell midway. “I have never seen such things. Give them me.” “Aha.” said the lama, smiling, and trailing a loop of it on the grass: This is a handful of cardamoms, This is a lump of _ghi:_ This is millet and chillies and rice, A supper for thee and me! The child shrieked with joy, and snatched at the dark, glancing beads. “Oho!” said the old soldier. “Whence hadst thou that song, despiser of this world?” “I learned it in Pathânkot—sitting on a doorstep,” said the lama shyly. “It is good to be kind to babes.” “As I remember, before the sleep came on us, thou hadst told me that marriage and bearing were darkeners of the true light, stumbling-blocks upon the Way. Do children drop from Heaven in thy country? Is it the Way to sing them songs?” “No man is all perfect,” said the lama gravely, recoiling the rosary. “Run now to thy mother, little one.” “Hear him!” said the soldier to Kim. “He is ashamed for that he has made a child happy. There was a very good householder lost in thee, my brother. Hai, child!” He threw it a pice. “Sweetmeats are always sweet.” And as the little figure capered away into the sunshine: “They grow up and become men. Holy One, I grieve that I slept in the midst of thy preaching. Forgive me.” “We be two old men,” said the lama. “The fault is mine. I listened to thy talk of the world and its madness, and one fault led to the next.” “Hear him! What harm do thy Gods suffer from play with a babe? And that song was very well sung. Let us go on and I will sing thee the song of Nikal Seyn before Delhi—the old song.”