‘These are the men,’ Hurree whispered, as the ritual went on and the two whites followed the grass-blade sweeping from Hell to Heaven and back again.  ’All their books are in the large kilta with the reddish top — books and reports and maps — and I have seen a King’s letter that either Hilas or Bunar has written.  They guard it most carefully.  They have sent nothing back from Hilas or Leh.  That is sure.’

‘Who is with them?’

’Only the beegar-coolies.  They have no servants.  They are so close they cook their own food.’

‘But what am I to do?’

’Wait and see.  Only if any chance comes to me thou wilt know where to seek for the papers.’

‘This were better in Mahbub Ali’s hands than a Bengali’s,’ said Kim scornfully.

’There are more ways of getting to a sweetheart than butting down a wall.’

’See here the Hell appointed for avarice and greed.  Flanked upon the one side by Desire and on the other by Weariness.’  The lama warmed to his work, and one of the strangers sketched him in the quick-fading light.

‘That is enough,’ the man said at last brusquely.  ’I cannot understand him, but I want that picture.  He is a better artist than I. Ask him if he will sell it.’

‘He says “No, sar,"’ the Babu replied.  The lama, of course, would no more have parted with his chart to a casual wayfarer than an archbishop would pawn the holy vessels of his cathedral.  All Tibet is full of cheap reproductions of the Wheel; but the lama was an artist, as well as a wealthy Abbot in his own place.

’Perhaps in three days, or four, or ten, if I perceive that the Sahib is a Seeker and of good understanding, I may myself draw him another.  But this was used for the initiation of a novice.  Tell him so, hakim.’

‘He wishes it now — for money.’

The lama shook his head slowly and began to fold up the Wheel.  The Russian, on his side, saw no more than an unclean old man haggling over a dirty piece of paper.  He drew out a handful of rupees, and snatched half-jestingly at the chart, which tore in the lama’s grip.  A low murmur of horror went up from the coolies — some of whom were Spiti men and, by their lights, good Buddhists.  The lama rose at the insult; his hand went to the heavy iron pencase that is the priest’s weapon, and the Babu danced in agony.

’Now you see — you see why I wanted witnesses.  They are highly unscrupulous people.  Oh, sar! sar!  You must not hit holyman!’

‘Chela!  He has defiled the Written Word!’

It was too late.  Before Kim could ward him off, the Russian struck the old man full on the face.  Next instant he was rolling over and over downhill with Kim at his throat.  The blow had waked every unknown Irish devil in the boy’s blood, and the sudden fall of his enemy did the rest.  The lama dropped to his knees, half-stunned; the coolies under their loads fled up the hill as fast as plainsmen run