’That is no more than the city of Umballa where we slept last night,’ Kim whispered to the priest.

’Ay, Umballa was it?  He cast a horoscope and declared that my chela should find his desire within two days.  But what said he of the meaning of the stars, Friend of all the World?’

Kim cleared his throat and looked around at the village greybeards.

‘The meaning of my Star is War,’ he replied pompously.

Somebody laughed at the little tattered figure strutting on the brickwork plinth under the great tree.  Where a native would have lain down, Kim’s white blood set him upon his feet.

‘Ay, War,’ he answered.

‘That is a sure prophecy,’ rumbled a deep voice.  ’For there is always war along the Border — as I know.’

It was an old, withered man, who had served the Government in the days of the Mutiny as a native officer in a newly raised cavalry regiment.  The Government had given him a good holding in the village, and though the demands of his sons, now grey-bearded officers on their own account, had impoverished him, he was still a person of consequence.  English officials — Deputy Commissioners even — turned aside from the main road to visit him, and on those occasions he dressed himself in the uniform of ancient days, and stood up like a ramrod.

‘But this shall be a great war — a war of eight thousand.’  Kim’s voice shrilled across the quick-gathering crowd, astonishing himself.

‘Redcoats or our own regiments?’ the old man snapped, as though he were asking an equal.  His tone made men respect Kim.

‘Redcoats,’ said Kim at a venture.  ‘Redcoats and guns.’

‘But — but the astrologer said no word of this,’ cried the lama, snuffing prodigiously in his excitement.

’But I know.  The word has come to me, who am this Holy One’s disciple.  There will rise a war — a war of eight thousand redcoats.  From Pindi and Peshawur they will be drawn.  This is sure.’

‘The boy has heard bazar-talk,’ said the priest.

‘But he was always by my side,’ said the lama.  ’How should he know?  I did not know.’

‘He will make a clever juggler when the old man is dead,’ muttered the priest to the headman.  ‘What new trick is this?’

‘A sign.  Give me a sign,’ thundered the old soldier suddenly.  ’If there were war my sons would have told me.’

’When all is ready, thy sons, doubt not, will be told.  But it is a long road from thy sons to the man in whose hands these things lie.’  Kim warmed to the game, for it reminded him of experiences in the letter-carrying line, when, for the sake of a few pice, he pretended to know more than he knew.  But now he was playing for larger things — the sheer excitement and the sense of power.  He drew a new breath and went on.

’Old man, give me a sign.  Do underlings order the goings of eight thousand redcoats — with guns?’