“What matter, Holy One?—but remember it is only for a night or two. Remember, I can change swiftly. It will all be as it was when I first spoke to thee under Zam-Zammah the great gun—” “As a boy in the dress of white men—when I first went to the Wonder House. And a second time thou wast a Hindu. What shall the third incarnation be?” He chuckled drearily. “Ah, _chela_, thou has done a wrong to an old man because my heart went out to thee.” “And mine to thee. But how could I know that the Red Bull would bring me to this business?” The lama covered his face afresh, and nervously rattled the rosary. Kim squatted beside him and laid hold upon a fold of his clothing. “Now it is understood that the boy is a Sahib?” he went on in a muffled tone. “Such a Sahib as was he who kept the images in the Wonder House.” The lama’s experience of white men was limited. He seemed to be repeating a lesson. “So then it is not seemly that he should do other than as the Sahibs do. He must go back to his own people.” “For a day and a night and a day,” Kim pleaded. “No, ye don’t!” Father Victor saw Kim edging towards the door, and interposed a strong leg. “I do not understand the customs of white men. The Priest of the Images in the Wonder House in Lahore was more courteous than the thin one here. This boy will be taken from me. They will make a Sahib of my disciple? Woe to me! How shall I find my River? Have _they_ no disciples? Ask.” “He says he is very sorree that he cannot find the River now any more. He says, Why have you no disciples, and stop bothering him? He wants to be washed of his sins.” Neither Bennett nor Father Victor found any answer ready. Said Kim in English, distressed for the lama’s agony: “I think if you will let me go now we will walk away quietly and not steal. We will look for that River like before I was caught. I wish I did not come here to find the Red Bull and all that sort of thing. I do not want it.” “It’s the very best day’s work you ever did for yourself, young man,” said Bennett. “Good heavens, I don’t know how to console him,” said Father Victor, watching the lama intently. “He can’t take the boy away with him, and yet he’s a good man—I’m sure he’s a good man. Bennett, if you give him that rupee he’ll curse you root and branch!” They listened to each other’s breathing—three—five full minutes. Then the lama raised his head, and looked forth across them into space and emptiness.