Behold him, too fine-drawn to sweat, too pressed to vaunt the drugs in his little brass-bound box, ascending Shamlegh slope, a just man made perfect.  Watch him, all Babudom laid aside, smoking at noon on a cot, while a woman with turquoise-studded headgear points south-easterly across the bare grass.  Litters, she says, do not travel as fast as single men, but his birds should now be in the Plains.  The holy man would not stay though Lispeth pressed him.  The Babu groans heavily, girds up his huge loins, and is off again.  He does not care to travel after dusk; but his days’ marches — there is none to enter them in a book — would astonish folk who mock at his race.  Kindly villagers, remembering the Dacca drug-vendor of two months ago, give him shelter against evil spirits of the wood.  He dreams of Bengali Gods, University text-books of education, and the Royal Society, London, England.  Next dawn the bobbing blue-and-white umbrella goes forward.

On the edge of the Doon, Mussoorie well behind them and the Plains spread out in golden dust before, rests a worn litter in which — all the Hills know it — lies a sick lama who seeks a River for his healing.  Villages have almost come to blows over the honour of bearing it, for not only has the lama given them blessings, but his disciple good money — full one-third Sahibs’ prices.  Twelve miles a day has the dooli travelled, as the greasy, rubbed pole-ends show, and by roads that few Sahibs use.  Over the Nilang Pass in storm when the driven snow-dust filled every fold of the impassive lama’s drapery; between the black horns of Raieng where they heard the whistle of the wild goats through the clouds; pitching and strained on the shale below; hard-held between shoulder and clenched jaw when they rounded the hideous curves of the Cut Road under Bhagirati; swinging and creaking to the steady jog-trot of the descent into the Valley of the Waters; pressed along the steamy levels of that locked valley; up, up and out again, to meet the roaring gusts off Kedarnath; set down of mid-days in the dun gloom of kindly oak-forests; passed from village to village in dawn-chill, when even devotees may be forgiven for swearing at impatient holy men; or by torchlight, when the least fearful think of ghosts — the dooli has reached her last stage.  The little hill-folk sweat in the modified heat of the lower Siwaliks, and gather round the priests for their blessing and their wage.

‘Ye have acquired merit,’ says the lama.  ’Merit greater than your knowing.  And ye will return to the Hills,’ he sighs.

‘Surely.  The high Hills as soon as may be.’  The bearer rubs his shoulder, drinks water, spits it out again, and readjusts his grass sandal.  Kim — his face is drawn and tired — pays very small silver from his belt, heaves out the food-bag, crams an oilskin packet — they are holy writings — into his bosom, and helps the lama to his feet.  The peace has come again into the old man’s eyes, and he does not look for the hills to fall down and crush him as he did that terrible night when they were delayed by the flooded river.