At the far end of the plain a heavy, dusty column crawled in sight. Then the wind brought the tune: We crave your condescension To tell you what we know Of marching in the Mulligan Guards To Sligo Port below! Here broke in the shrill-tongued fifes: We shouldered arms, We marched—we marched away. From Phœnix Park We marched to Dublin Bay. The drums and the fifes, Oh, sweetly they did play, As we marched—marched—marched—with the Mulligan Guards! It was the band of the Mavericks playing the regiment to camp; for the men were route-marching with their baggage. The rippling column swung into the level—carts behind it divided left and right, ran about like an ant-hill, and ... “But this is sorcery!” said the lama. The plain dotted itself with tents that seemed to rise, all spread, from the carts. Another rush of men invaded the grove, pitched a huge tent in silence, ran up yet eight or nine more by the side of it, unearthed cooking-pots, pans, and bundles, which were taken possession of by a crowd of native servants; and behold the mango-tope turned into an orderly town as they watched! “Let us go,” said the lama, sinking back afraid, as the fires twinkled and white officers with jingling swords stalked into the Mess-tent. “Stand back in the shadow. No one can see beyond the light of a fire,” said Kim, his eyes still on the flag. He had never before watched the routine of a seasoned regiment pitching camp in thirty minutes. “Look! look! look!” clucked the lama. “Yonder comes a priest.” It was Bennett, the Church of England Chaplain of the regiment, limping in dusty black. One of his flock had made some rude remarks about the Chaplain’s mettle; and to abash him Bennett had marched step by step with the men that day. The black dress, gold cross on the watch-chain, the hairless face, and the soft, black wideawake hat would have marked him as a holy man anywhere in all India. He dropped into a camp-chair by the door of the Mess-tent and slid off his boots. Three or four officers gathered round him, laughing and joking over his exploit. “The talk of white men is wholly lacking in dignity,” said the lama, who judged only by tone. “But I considered the countenance of that priest and I think he is learned. Is it likely that he will understand our talk? I would talk to him of my Search.” “Never speak to a white man till he is fed,” said Kim, quoting a well-known proverb. “They will eat now, and—and I do not think they are good to beg from. Let us go back to the resting-place. After we have eaten we will come again. It certainly was a Red Bull—_my_ Red Bull.” They were both noticeably absent-minded when the old lady’s retinue set their meal before them; so none broke their reserve, for it is not lucky to annoy guests. “Now,” said Kim, picking his teeth, “we will return to that place; but thou, O Holy One, must wait a little way off, because thy feet are heavier than mine and I am anxious to see more of that Red Bull.”