prompt:
Chapter: Who hath desired the Sea--the immense and contemptuous surges?
  The shudder, the stumble, the swerve ere the star-stabbing bowsprit
      merges--
  The orderly clouds of the Trades and the ridged roaring
      sapphire thereunder--
  Unheralded cliff-lurking flaws and the head-sails' low-volleying
      thunder?
  His Sea in no wonder the same--his Sea and the same in each wonder--
  His Sea that his being fulfils?
  So and no otherwise--so and no otherwise hill-men desire their hills!

  The Sea and the Hills.

'Who goes to the hills goes to his mother.'

They had crossed the Siwaliks and the half-tropical Doon, left
Mussoorie behind them, and headed north along the narrow hill-roads.
Day after day they struck deeper into the huddled mountains, and day
after day Kim watched the lama return to a man's strength.  Among the
terraces of the Doon he had leaned on the boy's shoulder, ready to
profit by wayside halts.  Under the great ramp to Mussoorie he drew
himself together as an old hunter faces a well-remembered bank, and
where he should have sunk exhausted swung his long draperies about him,
drew a deep double-lungful of the diamond air, and walked as only a
hillman can.  Kim, plains-bred and plains-fed, sweated and panted
astonished.  'This is my country,' said the lama.  'Beside Such-zen,
this is flatter than a rice-field'; and with steady, driving strokes
from the loins he strode upwards.  But it was on the steep downhill
marches, three thousand feet in three hours, that he went utterly away
from Kim, whose back ached with holding back, and whose big toe was
nigh cut off by his grass sandal-string.  Through the speckled shadow
of the great deodar-forests; through oak feathered and plumed with
ferns; birch, ilex, rhododendron, and pine, out on to the bare
hillsides' slippery sunburnt grass, and back into the woodlands' coolth
again, till oak gave way to bamboo and palm of the valley, the lama
swung untiring.

Glancing back in the twilight at the huge ridges behind him and the
faint, thin line of the road whereby they had come, he would lay out,
with a hillman's generous breadth of vision, fresh marches for the
morrow; or, halting in the neck of some uplifted pass that gave on
Spiti and Kulu, would stretch out his hands yearningly towards the high
snows of the horizon.  In the dawns they flared windy-red above stark
blue, as Kedarnath and Badrinath--kings of that wilderness--took the
first sunlight.  All day long they lay like molten silver under the
sun, and at evening put on their jewels again.  At first they breathed
temperately upon the travellers, winds good to meet when one crawled
over some gigantic hog's-back; but in a few days, at a height of nine
or ten thousand feet, those breezes bit; and Kim kindly allowed a
village of hillmen to acquire merit by giving him a rough blanket-coat.
The lama was mildly surprised that anyone should object to the
knife-edged breezes which had cut the years off his shoulders.

'These are but the lower hills, chela.  There is no cold till we come
to the true Hills.'

'Air and water are good, and the people are devout enough, but the food
is very bad,' Kim growled; 'and we walk as though we were mad--or
English.  It freezes at night, too.'

'A little, maybe; but only enough to make old bones rejoice in the sun.
We must not always delight in soft beds and rich food.'

'We might at least keep to the road.'

Kim had all a plainsman's affection for the well-trodden track, not six
feet wide, that snaked among the mountains; but the lama, being
Tibetan, could not refrain from short cuts over spurs and the rims of
gravel-strewn slopes.  As he explained to his limping disciple, a man
bred among mountains can prophesy the course of a mountain-road, and
though low-lying clouds might be a hindrance to a short-cutting
stranger, they made no earthly difference to a thoughtful man.  Thus,
after long hours of what would be reckoned very fair mountaineering in
civilized countries, they would pant over a saddle-back, sidle past a
few landslips, and drop through forest at an angle of forty-five onto
the road again.  Along their track lay the villages of the
hillfolk--mud and earth huts, timbers now and then rudely carved with
an axe--clinging like swallows' nests against the steeps, huddled on
tiny flats half-way down a three-thousand-foot glissade; jammed into a
corner between cliffs that funnelled and focused every wandering blast;
or, for the sake of summer pasture, cowering down on a neck that in
winter would be ten feet deep in snow.  And the people--the sallow,
greasy, duffle-clad people, with short bare legs and faces almost
Esquimaux--would flock out and adore.  The Plains--kindly and
gentle--had treated the lama as a holy man among holy men.  But the
Hills worshipped him as one in the confidence of all their devils.
Theirs was an almost obliterated Buddhism, overlaid with a
nature-worship fantastic as their own landscapes, elaborate as the
terracing of their tiny fields; but they recognized the big hat, the
clicking rosary, and the rare Chinese texts for great authority; and
they respected the man beneath the hat.

'We saw thee come down over the black Breasts of Eua,' said a Betah who
gave them cheese, sour milk, and stone-hard bread one evening. 'We do
not use that often--except when calving cows stray in summer.  There is
a sudden wind among those stones that casts men down on the stillest
day.  But what should such folk care for the Devil of Eua!'

Then did Kim, aching in every fibre, dizzy with looking down, footsore
with cramping desperate toes into inadequate crannies, take joy in the
day's march--such joy as a boy of St Xavier's who had won the
quarter-mile on the flat might take in the praises of his friends.  The
hills sweated the ghi and sugar suet off his bones; the dry air, taken
sobbingly at the head of cruel passes, firmed and built out his upper
ribs; and the tilted levels put new hard muscles into calf and thigh.

They meditated often on the Wheel of Life--the more so since, as the
lama said, they were freed from its visible temptations.  Except the
grey eagle and an occasional far-seen bear grubbing and rooting on the
hillside; a vision of a furious painted leopard met at dawn in a still
valley devouring a goat; and now and again a bright-coloured bird, they
were alone with the winds and the grass singing under the wind.  The
women of the smoky huts over whose roofs the two walked as they
descended the mountains, were unlovely and unclean, wives of many
husbands, and afflicted with goitre.  The men were woodcutters when
they were not farmers--meek, and of an incredible simplicity.  But that
suitable discourse might not fail, Fate sent them, overtaking and
overtaken upon the road, the courteous Dacca physician, who paid for
his food in ointments good for goitre and counsels that restore peace
between men and women.  He seemed to know these hills as well as he
knew the hill dialects, and gave the lama the lie of the land towards
Ladakh and Tibet.  He said they could return to the Plains at any
moment.  Meantime, for such as loved mountains, yonder road might
amuse.  This was not all revealed in a breath, but at evening
encounters on the stone threshing-floors, when, patients disposed of,
the doctor would smoke and the lama snuff, while Kim watched the wee
cows grazing on the housetops, or threw his soul after his eyes across
the deep blue gulfs between range and range.  And there were talks
apart in the dark woods, when the doctor would seek herbs, and Kim, as
budding physician, must accompany him.

'You see, Mister O'Hara, I do not know what the deuce-an' all I shall
do when I find our sporting friends; but if you will kindly keep within
sight of my umbrella, which is fine fixed point for cadastral survey, I
shall feel much better.'

Kim looked out across the jungle of peaks.  'This is not my country,
hakim.  Easier, I think, to find one louse in a bear-skin.'

'Oah, thatt is my strong points.  There is no hurry for Hurree.  They
were at Leh not so long ago.  They said they had come down from the
Karakorum with their heads and horns and all.  I am onlee afraid they
will have sent back all their letters and compromising things from Leh
into Russian territoree.  Of course they will walk away as far to the
East as possible--just to show that they were never among the Western
States.  You do not know the Hills?'  He scratched with a twig on the
earth.  'Look!  They should have come in by Srinagar or Abbottabad.
Thatt is their short road--down the river by Bunji and Astor.  But they
have made mischief in the West.  So'--he drew a furrow from left to
right--'they march and they march away East to Leh (ah!  it is cold
there), and down the Indus to Hanle (I know that road), and then down,
you see, to Bushahr and Chini valley.  That is ascertained by process
of elimination, and also by asking questions from people that I cure so
well.  Our friends have been a long time playing about and producing
impressions.  So they are well known from far off.  You will see me
catch them somewhere in Chini valley. Please keep your eye on the
umbrella.'

It nodded like a wind-blown harebell down the valleys and round the
mountain sides, and in due time the lama and Kim, who steered by
compass, would overhaul it, vending ointments and powders at eventide.
'We came by such and such a way!'  The lama would throw a careless
finger backward at the ridges, and the umbrella would expend itself in
compliments.

They crossed a snowy pass in cold moonlight, when the lama, mildly
chaffing Kim, went through up to his knees, like a Bactrian camel--the
snow-bred, shag-haired sort that came into the Kashmir Serai. They
dipped across beds of light snow and snow-powdered shale, where they
took refuge from a gale in a camp of Tibetans hurrying down tiny sheep,
each laden with a bag of borax.  They came out upon grassy shoulders
still snow-speckled, and through forest, to grass anew.  For all their
marchings, Kedarnath and Badrinath were not impressed; and it was only
after days of travel that Kim, uplifted upon some insignificant
ten-thousand-foot hummock, could see that a shoulder-knot or horn of
the two great lords had--ever so slightly--changed outline.

At last they entered a world within a world--a valley of leagues where
the high hills were fashioned of a mere rubble and refuse from off the
knees of the mountains.  Here one day's march carried them no farther,
it seemed, than a dreamer's clogged pace bears him in a nightmare.
They skirted a shoulder painfully for hours, and, behold, it was but an
outlying boss in an outlying buttress of the main pile!  A rounded
meadow revealed itself, when they had reached it, for a vast tableland
running far into the valley.  Three days later, it was a dim fold in
the earth to southward.

'Surely the Gods live here!'  said Kim, beaten down by the silence and
the appalling sweep and dispersal of the cloud-shadows after rain.
'This is no place for men!'

'Long and long ago,' said the lama, as to himself, 'it was asked of the
Lord whether the world were everlasting.  On this the Excellent One
returned no answer ...  When I was in Ceylon, a wise Seeker confirmed
that from the gospel which is written in Pali.  Certainly, since we
know the way to Freedom, the question were unprofitable, but--look, and
know illusion, chela!  These--are the true Hills! They are like my
hills by Suchzen.  Never were such hills!'

Above them, still enormously above them, earth towered away towards the
snow-line, where from east to west across hundreds of miles, ruled as
with a ruler, the last of the bold birches stopped.  Above that, in
scarps and blocks upheaved, the rocks strove to fight their heads above
the white smother.  Above these again, changeless since the world's
beginning, but changing to every mood of sun and cloud, lay out the
eternal snow.  They could see blots and blurs on its face where storm
and wandering wullie-wa got up to dance.  Below them, as they stood,
the forest slid away in a sheet of blue-green for mile upon mile; below
the forest was a village in its sprinkle of terraced fields and steep
grazing-grounds.  Below the village they knew, though a thunderstorm
worried and growled there for the moment, a pitch of twelve or fifteen
hundred feet gave to the moist valley where the streams gather that are
the mothers of young Sutluj.

As usual, the lama had led Kim by cow-track and by-road, far from the
main route along which Hurree Babu, that 'fearful man', had bucketed
three days before through a storm to which nine Englishmen out of ten
would have given full right of way.  Hurree was no game-shot--the snick
of a trigger made him change colour--but, as he himself would have
said, he was 'fairly effeecient stalker', and he had raked the huge
valley with a pair of cheap binoculars to some purpose.  Moreover, the
white of worn canvas tents against green carries far.  Hurree Babu had
seen all he wanted to see when he sat on the threshing-floor of
Ziglaur, twenty miles away as the eagle flies, and forty by road--that
is to say, two small dots which one day were just below the snow-line,
and the next had moved downward perhaps six inches on the hillside.
Once cleaned out and set to the work, his fat bare legs could cover a
surprising amount of ground, and this was the reason why, while Kim and
the lama lay in a leaky hut at Ziglaur till the storm should be
over-past, an oily, wet, but always smiling Bengali, talking the best
of English with the vilest of phrases, was ingratiating himself with
two sodden and rather rheumatic foreigners.  He had arrived, revolving
many wild schemes, on the heels of a thunderstorm which had split a
pine over against their camp, and so convinced a dozen or two forcibly
impressed baggage-coolies the day was inauspicious for farther travel
that with one accord they had thrown down their loads and jibbed.  They
were subjects of a Hill Rajah who farmed out their services, as is the
custom, for his private gain; and, to add to their personal distresses,
the strange Sahibs had already threatened them with rifles.  The most
of them knew rifles and Sahibs of old:  they were trackers and
shikarris of the Northern valleys, keen after bear and wild goat; but
they had never been thus treated in their lives.  So the forest took
them to her bosom, and, for all oaths and clamour, refused to restore.
There was no need to feign madness or--the Babu had thought of another
means of securing a welcome.  He wrung out his wet clothes, slipped on
his patent-leather shoes, opened the blue-and-white umbrella, and with
mincing gait and a heart beating against his tonsils appeared as 'agent
for His Royal Highness, the Rajah of Rampur, gentlemen.  What can I do
for you, please?'

The gentlemen were delighted.  One was visibly French, the other
Russian, but they spoke English not much inferior to the Babu's. They
begged his kind offices.  Their native servants had gone sick at Leh.
They had hurried on because they were anxious to bring the spoils of
the chase to Simla ere the skins grew moth-eaten.  They bore a general
letter of introduction (the Babu salaamed to it orientally) to all
Government officials.  No, they had not met any other shooting-parties
en route.  They did for themselves.  They had plenty of supplies.  They
only wished to push on as soon as might be. At this he waylaid a
cowering hillman among the trees, and after three minutes' talk and a
little silver (one cannot be economical upon State service, though
Hurree's heart bled at the waste) the eleven coolies and the three
hangers-on reappeared.  At least the Babu would be a witness to their
oppression.

'My royal master, he will be much annoyed, but these people are onlee
common people and grossly ignorant.  If your honours will kindly
overlook unfortunate affair, I shall be much pleased.  In a little
while rain will stop and we can then proceed.  You have been shooting,
eh?  That is fine performance!'

He skipped nimbly from one kilta to the next, making pretence to adjust
each conical basket.  The Englishman is not, as a rule, familiar with
the Asiatic, but he would not strike across the wrist a kindly Babu who
had accidentally upset a kilta with a red oilskin top.  On the other
hand, he would not press drink upon a Babu were he never so friendly,
nor would he invite him to meat.  The strangers did all these things,
and asked many questions--about women mostly--to which Hurree returned
gay and unstudied answers. They gave him a glass of whitish fluid like
to gin, and then more; and in a little time his gravity departed from
him.  He became thickly treasonous, and spoke in terms of sweeping
indecency of a Government which had forced upon him a white man's
education and neglected to supply him with a white man's salary.  He
babbled tales of oppression and wrong till the tears ran down his
cheeks for the miseries of his land.  Then he staggered off, singing
love-songs of Lower Bengal, and collapsed upon a wet tree-trunk.  Never
was so unfortunate a product of English rule in India more unhappily
thrust upon aliens.

'They are all just of that pattern,' said one sportsman to the other in
French.  'When we get into India proper thou wilt see.  I should like
to visit his Rajah.  One might speak the good word there.  It is
possible that he has heard of us and wishes to signify his good-will.'

'We have not time.  We must get into Simla as soon as may be,' his
companion replied.  'For my own part, I wish our reports had been sent
back from Hilas, or even Leh.'

'The English post is better and safer.  Remember we are given all
facilities--and Name of God!--they give them to us too!  Is it
unbelievable stupidity?'

'It is pride--pride that deserves and will receive punishment.'

'Yes!  To fight a fellow-Continental in our game is something.  There
is a risk attached, but these people--bah!  It is too easy.'

'Pride--all pride, my friend.'

'Now what the deuce is good of Chandernagore being so close to Calcutta
and all,' said Hurree, snoring open-mouthed on the sodden moss, 'if I
cannot understand their French?  They talk so particularly fast!  It
would have been much better to cut their beastly throats.'

When he presented himself again he was racked with a
headache--penitent, and volubly afraid that in his drunkenness he might
have been indiscreet.  He loved the British Government--it was the
source of all prosperity and honour, and his master at Rampur held the
very same opinion.  Upon this the men began to deride him and to quote
past words, till step by step, with deprecating smirks, oily grins, and
leers of infinite cunning, the poor Babu was beaten out of his defences
and forced to speak--truth.  When Lurgan was told the tale later, he
mourned aloud that he could not have been in the place of the stubborn,
inattentive coolies, who with grass mats over their heads and the
raindrops puddling in their footprints, waited on the weather.  All the
Sahibs of their acquaintance--rough-clad men joyously returning year
after year to their chosen gullies--had servants and cooks and
orderlies, very often hillmen.  These Sahibs travelled without any
retinue.  Therefore they were poor Sahibs, and ignorant; for no Sahib
in his senses would follow a Bengali's advice.  But the Bengali,
appearing from somewhere, had given them money, and could make shift
with their dialect.  Used to comprehensive ill-treatment from their own
colour, they suspected a trap somewhere, and stood by to run if
occasion offered.

Then through the new-washed air, steaming with delicious earth-smells,
the Babu led the way down the slopes--walking ahead of the coolies in
pride; walking behind the foreigners in humility.  His thoughts were
many and various.  The least of them would have interested his
companions beyond words.  But he was an agreeable guide, ever keen to
point out the beauties of his royal master's domain.  He peopled the
hills with anything thev had a mind to slay--thar, ibex, or markhor,
and bear by Elisha's allowance.  He discoursed of botany and ethnology
with unimpeachable inaccuracy, and his store of local legends--he had
been a trusted agent of the State for fifteen years, remember--was
inexhaustible.

'Decidedly this fellow is an original,' said the taller of the two
foreigners.  'He is like the nightmare of a Viennese courier.'

'He represents in little India in transition--the monstrous hybridism
of East and West,' the Russian replied.  'It is we who can deal with
Orientals.'

'He has lost his own country and has not acquired any other.  But he
has a most complete hatred of his conquerors.  Listen.  He confided to
me last night,' said the other.

Under the striped umbrella Hurree Babu was straining ear and brain to
follow the quick-poured French, and keeping both eyes on a kilta full
of maps and documents--an extra-large one with a double red oil-skin
cover.  He did not wish to steal anything.  He only desired to know
what to steal, and, incidentally, how to get away when he had stolen
it.  He thanked all the Gods of Hindustan, and Herbert Spencer, that
there remained some valuables to steal.

On the second day the road rose steeply to a grass spur above the
forest; and it was here, about sunset, that they came across an aged
lama--but they called him a bonze--sitting cross-legged above a
mysterious chart held down by stones, which he was explaining to a
young man, evidently a neophyte, of singular, though unwashen, beauty.
The striped umbrella had been sighted half a march away, and Kim had
suggested a halt till it came up to them.

'Ha!'  said Hurree Babu, resourceful as Puss-in-Boots.  'That is
eminent local holy man.  Probably subject of my royal master.'

'What is he doing?  It is very curious.'

'He is expounding holy picture--all hand-worked.'

The two men stood bareheaded in the wash of the afternoon sunlight low
across the gold-coloured grass.  The sullen coolies, glad of the check,
halted and slid down their loads.

'Look!'  said the Frenchman.  'It is like a picture for the birth of a
religion--the first teacher and the first disciple.  Is he a Buddhist?'

'Of some debased kind,' the other answered.  'There are no true
Buddhists among the Hills.  But look at the folds of the drapery. Look
at his eyes--how insolent!  Why does this make one feel that we are so
young a people?'  The speaker struck passionately at a tall weed.  'We
have nowhere left our mark yet.  Nowhere!  That, do you understand, is
what disquiets me.'  He scowled at the placid face, and the monumental
calm of the pose.

'Have patience.  We shall make your mark together--we and you young
people.  Meantime, draw his picture.'

The Babu advanced loftily; his back out of all keeping with his
deferential speech, or his wink towards Kim.

'Holy One, these be Sahibs.  My medicines cured one of a flux, and I go
into Simla to oversee his recovery.  They wish to see thy picture--'

'To heal the sick is always good.  This is the Wheel of Life,' said the
lama, 'the same I showed thee in the hut at Ziglaur when the rain fell.'

'And to hear thee expound it.'

The lama's eyes lighted at the prospect of new listeners.  'To expound
the Most Excellent Way is good.  Have they any knowledge of Hindi, such
as had the Keeper of Images?'

'A little, maybe.'

Hereat, simply as a child engrossed with a new game, the lama threw
back his head and began the full-throated invocation of the Doctor of
Divinity ere he opens the full doctrine.  The strangers leaned on their
alpenstocks and listened.  Kim, squatting humbly, watched the red
sunlight on their faces, and the blend and parting of their long
shadows.  They wore un-English leggings and curious girt-in belts that
reminded him hazily of the pictures in a book in St Xavier's library
"The Adventures of a Young Naturalist in Mexico" was its name.  Yes,
they looked very like the wonderful M. Sumichrast of that tale, and
very unlike the 'highly unscrupulous folk' of Hurree Babu's imagining.
The coolies, earth-coloured and mute, crouched reverently some twenty
or thirty yards away, and the Babu, the slack of his thin gear snapping
like a marking-flag in the chill breeze, stood by with an air of happy
proprietorship.

'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 aross the
level.  They had seen sacrilege unspeakable, and it behoved them to get
away before the Gods and devils of the hills took vengeance.  The
Frenchman ran towards the lama, fumbling at his revolver with some
notion of making him a hostage for his companion. A shower of cutting
stones--hillmen are very straight shots--drove him away, and a coolie
from Ao-chung snatched the lama into the stampede.  All came about as
swiftly as the sudden mountain-darkness.

'They have taken the baggage and all the guns,' yelled the Frenchman,
firing blindly into the twilight.

'All right, sar!  All right!  Don't shoot.  I go to rescue,' and
Hurree, pounding down the slope, cast himself bodily upon the delighted
and astonished Kim, who was banging his breathless foe's head against a
boulder.

'Go back to the coolies,' whispered the Babu in his ear.  'They have
the baggage.  The papers are in the kilta with the red top, but look
through all.  Take their papers, and specially the murasla [King's
letter].  Go!  The other man comes!'

Kim tore uphill.  A revolver-bullet rang on a rock by his side, and he
cowered partridge-wise.

'If you shoot,' shouted Hurree, 'they will descend and annihilate us.
I have rescued the gentleman, sar.  This is particularly dangerous.'

'By Jove!'  Kim was thinking hard in English.  'This is dam'-tight
place, but I think it is self-defence.'  He felt in his bosom for
Mahbub's gift, and uncertainly--save for a few practice shots in the
Bikanir desert, he had never used the little gun--pulled the trigger.

'What did I say, sar!'  The Babu seemed to be in tears.  'Come down
here and assist to resuscitate.  We are all up a tree, I tell you.'

The shots ceased.  There was a sound of stumbling feet, and Kim hurried
upward through the gloom, swearing like a cat--or a country-bred.

'Did they wound thee, chela?'  called the lama above him.

'No.  And thou?'  He dived into a clump of stunted firs.

'Unhurt.  Come away.  We go with these folk to Shamlegh-under-the-Snow.'

'But not before we have done justice,' a voice cried.  'I have got the
Sahibs' guns--all four.  Let us go down.'

'He struck the Holy One--we saw it!  Our cattle will be barren--our
wives will cease to bear!  The snows will slide upon us as we go
home...  Atop of all other oppression too!'

The little fir-clump filled with clamouring coolies--panic-stricken,
and in their terror capable of anything.  The man from Ao-chung clicked
the breech-bolt of his gun impatiently, and made as to go downhill.

'Wait a little, Holy One; they cannot go far.  Wait till I return,'
said he.

'It is this person who has suffered wrong,' said the lama, his hand
over his brow.

'For that very reason,' was the reply.

'If this person overlooks it, your hands are clean.  Moreover, ye
acquire merit by obedience.'

'Wait, and we will all go to Shamlegh together,' the man insisted.

For a moment, for just so long as it needs to stuff a cartridge into a
breech-loader, the lama hesitated.  Then he rose to his feet, and laid
a finger on the man's shoulder.

'Hast thou heard?  I say there shall be no killing--I who was Abbot of
Such-zen.  Is it any lust of thine to be re-born as a rat, or a snake
under the eaves--a worm in the belly of the most mean beast? Is it thy
wish to--'

The man from Ao-chung fell to his knees, for the voice boomed like a
Tibetan devil-gong.

'Ai!  ai!'  cried the Spiti men.  'Do not curse us--do not curse him.
It was but his zeal, Holy One!  ... Put down the rifle, fool!'

'Anger on anger!  Evil on evil!  There will be no killing.  Let the
priest-beaters go in bondage to their own acts.  Just and sure is the
Wheel, swerving not a hair!  They will be born many times--in torment.'
His head drooped, and he leaned heavily on Kim's shoulder.

'I have come near to great evil, chela,' he whispered in that dead hush
under the pines.  'I was tempted to loose the bullet; and truly, in
Tibet there would have been a heavy and a slow death for them ... He
struck me across the face ...  upon the flesh ...'  He slid to the
ground, breathing heavily, and Kim could hear the over-driven heart
bump and check.

'Have they hurt him to the death?'  said the Ao-chung man, while the
others stood mute.

Kim knelt over the body in deadly fear.  'Nay,' he cried passionately,
'this is only a weakness.'  Then he remembered that he was a white man,
with a white man's camp-fittings at his service. 'Open the kiltas!  The
Sahibs may have a medicine.'

'Oho!  Then I know it,' said the Ao-chung man with a laugh.  'Not for
five years was I Yankling Sahib's shikarri without knowing that
medicine.  I too have tasted it.  Behold!'

He drew from his breast a bottle of cheap whisky--such as is sold to
explorers at Leh--and cleverly forced a little between the lama's teeth.

'So I did when Yankling Sahib twisted his foot beyond Astor.  Aha!  I
have already looked into their baskets--but we will make fair division
at Shamlegh.  Give him a little more.  It is good medicine. Feel!  His
heart goes better now.  Lay his head down and rub a little on the
chest.  If he had waited quietly while I accounted for the Sahibs this
would never have come.  But perhaps the Sahibs may chase us here.  Then
it would not be wrong to shoot them with their own guns, heh?'

'One is paid, I think, already,' said Kim between his teeth.  'I kicked
him in the groin as we went downhill.  Would I had killed him!'

'It is well to be brave when one does not live in Rampur,' said one
whose hut lay within a few miles of the Rajah's rickety palace.  'If we
get a bad name among the Sahibs, none will employ us as shikarris any
more.'

'Oh, but these are not Angrezi Sahibs--not merry-minded men like Fostum
Sahib or Yankling Sahib.  They are foreigners--they cannot speak
Angrezi as do Sahibs.'

Here the lama coughed and sat up, groping for the rosary.

'There shall be no killing,' he murmured.  'Just is the Wheel!  Evil on
evil--'

'Nay, Holy One.  We are all here.'  The Ao-chung man timidly patted his
feet.  'Except by thy order, no one shall be slain.  Rest awhile. We
will make a little camp here, and later, as the moon rises, we go to
Shamlegh-under-the-Snow.'

'After a blow,' said a Spiti man sententiously, 'it is best to sleep.'

'There is, as it were, a dizziness at the back of my neck, and a
pinching in it.  Let me lay my head on thy lap, chela.  I am an old
man, but not free from passion ...  We must think of the Cause of
Things.'

'Give him a blanket.  We dare not light a fire lest the Sahibs see.'

'Better get away to Shamlegh.  None will follow us to Shamlegh.'

This was the nervous Rampur man.

'I have been Fostum Sahib's shikarri, and I am Yankling Sahib's
shikarri.  I should have been with Yankling Sahib now but for this
cursed beegar [the corvee].  Let two men watch below with the guns lest
the Sahibs do more foolishness.  I shall not leave this Holy One.'

They sat down a little apart from the lama, and, after listening
awhile, passed round a water-pipe whose receiver was an old Day and
Martin blacking-bottle.  The glow of the red charcoal as it went from
hand to hand lit up the narrow, blinking eyes, the high Chinese
cheek-bones, and the bull-throats that melted away into the dark duffle
folds round the shoulders.  They looked like kobolds from some magic
mine--gnomes of the hills in conclave.  And while they talked, the
voices of the snow-waters round them diminished one by one as the
night-frost choked and clogged the runnels.

'How he stood up against us!'  said a Spiti man admiring.  'I remember
an old ibex, out Ladakh-way, that Dupont Sahib missed on a
shoulder-shot, seven seasons back, standing up just like him.  Dupont
Sahib was a good shikarri.'

'Not as good as Yankling Sahib.'  The Ao-chung man took a pull at the
whisky-bottle and passed it over.  'Now hear me--unless any other man
thinks he knows more.'

The challenge was not taken up.

'We go to Shamlegh when the moon rises.  There we will fairly divide
the baggage between us.  I am content with this new little rifle and
all its cartridges.'

'Are the bears only bad on thy holding?  said a mate, sucking at the
pipe.

'No; but musk-pods are worth six rupees apiece now, and thy women can
have the canvas of the tents and some of the cooking-gear.  We will do
all that at Shamlegh before dawn.  Then we all go our ways, remembering
that we have never seen or taken service with these Sahibs, who may,
indeed, say that we have stolen their baggage.'

'That is well for thee, but what will our Rajah say?'

'Who is to tell him?  Those Sahibs, who cannot speak our talk, or the
Babu, who for his own ends gave us money?  Will he lead an army against
us?  What evidence will remain?  That we do not need we shall throw on
Shamlegh-midden, where no man has yet set foot.'

'Who is at Shamlegh this summer?'  The place was only a grazing centre
of three or four huts.'

'The Woman of Shamlegh.  She has no love for Sahibs, as we know.  The
others can be pleased with little presents; and here is enough for us
all.'  He patted the fat sides of the nearest basket.

'But--but--'

'I have said they are not true Sahibs.  All their skins and heads were
bought in the bazar at Leh.  I know the marks.  I showed them to ye
last march.'

'True.  They were all bought skins and heads.  Some had even the moth
in them.'

That was a shrewd argument, and the Ao-chung man knew his fellows.

'If the worst comes to the worst, I shall tell Yankling Sahib, who is a
man of a merry mind, and he will laugh.  We are not doing any wrong to
any Sahibs whom we know.  They are priest-beaters.  They frightened us.
We fled!  Who knows where we dropped the baggage?  Do ye think Yankling
Sahib will permit down-country police to wander all over the hills,
disturbing his game?  It is a far cry from Simla to Chini, and farther
from Shamlegh to Shamlegh-midden.'

'So be it, but I carry the big kilta.  The basket with the red top that
the Sahibs pack themselves every morning.'

'Thus it is proved,' said the Shamlegh man adroitly, 'that they are
Sahibs of no account.  Who ever heard of Fostum Sahib, or Yankling
Sahib, or even the little Peel Sahib that sits up of nights to shoot
serow--I say, who, ever heard of these Sahibs coming into the hills
without a down-country cook, and a bearer, and--and all manner of
well-paid, high-handed and oppressive folk in their tail?  How can they
make trouble?  What of the kilta?'

'Nothing, but that it is full of the Written Word--books and papers in
which they wrote, and strange instruments, as of worship.'

'Shamlegh-midden will take them all.'

'True!  But how if we insult the Sahibs' Gods thereby!  I do not like
to handle the Written Word in that fashion.  And their brass idols are
beyond my comprehension.  It is no plunder for simple hill-folk.'

'The old man still sleeps.  Hst!  We will ask his chela.'  The Ao-chung
man refreshed himself, and swelled with pride of leadership.

'We have here,' he whispered, 'a kilta whose nature we do not know.'

'But I do,' said Kim cautiously.  The lama drew breath in natural, easy
sleep, and Kim had been thinking of Hurree's last words.  As a player
of the Great Game, he was disposed just then to reverence the Babu.
'It is a kilta with a red top full of very wonderful things, not to be
handled by fools.'

'I said it; I said it,' cried the bearer of that burden.  'Thinkest
thou it will betray us?'

'Not if it be given to me.  I can draw out its magic.  Otherwise it
will do great harm.'

'A priest always takes his share.'  Whisky was demoralizing the
Ao-chung man.

'It is no matter to me.'  Kim answered, with the craft of his
mother-country.  'Share it among you, and see what comes!'

'Not I. I was only jesting.  Give the order.  There is more than enough
for us all.  We go our way from Shamlegh in the dawn.'

They arranged and re-arranged their artless little plans for another
hour, while Kim shivered with cold and pride.  The humour of the
situation tickled the Irish and the Oriental in his soul.  Here were
the emissaries of the dread Power of the North, very possibly as great
in their own land as Mahbub or Colonel Creighton, suddenly smitten
helpless.  One of them, he privately knew, would be lame for a time.
They had made promises to Kings.  Tonight they lay out somewhere below
him, chartless, foodless, tentless, gunless--except for Hurree Babu,
guideless.  And this collapse of their Great Game (Kim wondered to whom
they would report it), this panicky bolt into the night, had come about
through no craft of Hurree's or contrivance of Kim's, but simply,
beautifully, and inevitably as the capture of Mahbub's fakir-friends by
the zealous young policeman at Umballa.

'They are there--with nothing; and, by Jove, it is cold!  I am here
with all their things.  Oh, they will be angry!  I am sorry for Hurree
Babu.'

Kim might have saved his pity, for though at that moment the Bengali
suffered acutely in the flesh, his soul was puffed and lofty.  A mile
down the hill, on the edge of the pine-forest, two half-frozen men--one
powerfully sick at intervals--were varying mutual recriminations with
the most poignant abuse of the Babu, who seemed distraught with terror.
They demanded a plan of action.  He explained that they were very lucky
to be alive; that their coolies, if not then stalking them, had passed
beyond recall; that the Rajah, his master, was ninety miles away, and,
so far from lending them money and a retinue for the Simla journey,
would surely cast them into prison if he heard that they had hit a
priest.  He enlarged on this sin and its consequences till they bade
him change the subject. Their one hope, said he, was unostentatious
flight from village to village till they reached civilization; and, for
the hundredth time dissolved in tears, he demanded of the high stars
why the Sahibs 'had beaten holy man'.

Ten steps would have taken Hurree into the creaking gloom utterly
beyond their reach--to the shelter and food of the nearest village,
where glib-tongued doctors were scarce.  But he preferred to endure
cold, belly-pinch, bad words, and occasional blows in the company of
his honoured employers.  Crouched against a tree-trunk, he sniffed
dolefully.

'And have you thought,' said the uninjured man hotly, 'what sort of
spectacle we shall present wandering through these hills among these
aborigines?'

Hurree Babu had thought of little else for some hours, but the remark
was not to his address.

'We cannot wander!  I can hardly walk,' groaned Kim's victim.

'Perhaps the holy man will be merciful in loving-kindness, sar,
otherwise--'

'I promise myself a peculiar pleasure in emptying my revolver into that
young bonze when next we meet,' was the unchristian answer.

'Revolvers!  Vengeance!  Bonzes!'  Hurree crouched lower.  The war was
breaking out afresh.  'Have you no consideration for our loss?  The
baggage!  The baggage!'  He could hear the speaker literally dancing on
the grass.  'Everything we bore!  Everything we have secured!  Our
gains!  Eight months' work!  Do you know what that means?  "Decidedly
it is we who can deal with Orientals!"  Oh, you have done well.'

They fell to it in several tongues, and Hurree smiled.  Kim was with
the kiltas, and in the kiltas lay eight months of good diplomacy. There
was no means of communicating with the boy, but he could be trusted.
For the rest, Hurree could so stage-manage the journey through the
hills that Hilas, Bunar, and four hundred miles of hill-roads should
tell the tale for a generation.  Men who cannot control their own
coolies are little respected in the Hills, and the hillman has a very
keen sense of humour.

'If I had done it myself,' thought Hurree, 'it would not have been
better; and, by Jove, now I think of it, of course I arranged it
myself.  How quick I have been!  Just when I ran downhill I thought it!
Thee outrage was accidental, but onlee me could have worked it--ah--for
all it was dam'-well worth.  Consider the moral effect upon these
ignorant peoples!  No treaties--no papers--no written documents at
all--and me to interpret for them.  How I shall laugh with the Colonel!
I wish I had their papers also:  but you cannot occupy two places in
space simultaneously.  Thatt is axiomatic.'

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: As they start climbing the foothills of the Himalayas, the lama could not be happier; he feels like he is on his own turf at last. Kim, meanwhile, is hungry, cold, and tired--definitely off his game. Still, as Kim keeps climbing and keeps breathing all this fresh mountain air, he gets stronger. The Babu follows them on the road--he seems to know this whole area very well. Finally they reach a valley in the middle of high mountains, damp with streams that flow into the river Sutluj. As Kim and the lama spend the night in the valley, the Babu races on ahead to meet the two Europeans . They want someone local to help get them to Simla, and the Babu offers to guide them. The Babu also puts on a convincing display of hating the English, which the two European guys buy completely. As the Babu leads these two foreigners and their coolies , he finds Kim and the lama on the road. He secretly signals Kim that these two guys are The Guys, the ones they've been looking for. The Babu also invites the two men to look at the lama's drawing of the Great Wheel of existence. The lama starts explaining about the Buddhist model of human existence--the Russian quickly says that he can't understand the lama, but he wants to buy his drawing. The lama refuses, and the Russian reaches out as though he is going to grab the drawing. The Russian hits the lama right in the face, and Kim leaps at him. All the bearers run off into the hills ASAP--they know that it's super bad luck to hit a holy man, and they don't want to be around when the gods start throwing lightning bolts. The Babu jumps on Kim as though he is defending the Russian guy, but really, he's warning Kim to run after the bearers and get their papers. A shot hits a rock near Kim as he runs, so Kim pulls out the gun he got from Mahbub Ali and shoots back. He and the lama find cover behind some trees. The bearers all want to shoot the two Europeans in revenge for the act of sacrilege they have just seen . The lama orders the bearers not to kill anybody, but confesses to Kim that he was tempted to shoot the men and he feels deeply shaken by his moral weakness. He sinks to the ground, partly thanks to his injury, but also because of his disappointment in himself. The bearers decide to divide up the European men's loot. Kim steps in and says that they shouldn't take the bag full of books and instruments--it's got magic tools that only Kim can handle safely. Meanwhile, the Babu accompanies the two Europeans. He keeps telling them they have no choice now but to sneak from village to village until they can get to a city. Their luggage is long gone, and they will be in so much trouble if they contact the Kings--after all, hitting a holy man is the worst thing you can do around here. The Babu's strong words convince the Europeans, who immediately fall to fighting with each other. And the whole threat of the Russian spies falls apart.


prompt:
Chapter: My brother kneels (so saith Kabir)
  To stone and brass in heathen wise,
  But in my brother's voice I hear
  My own unanswered agonies.
  His God is as his Fates assign--
  His prayer is all the world's--and mine.

  The Prayer.

At moonrise the cautious coolies got under way.  The lama, refreshed by
his sleep and the spirit, needed no more than Kim's shoulder to bear
him along--a silent, swift-striding man.  They held the shale-sprinkled
grass for an hour, swept round the shoulder of an immortal cliff, and
climbed into a new country entirely blocked off from all sight of Chini
valley.  A huge pasture-ground ran up fan-shaped to the living snow.
At its base was perhaps half an acre of flat land, on which stood a few
soil and timber huts.  Behind them--for, hill-fashion, they were
perched on the edge of all things--the ground fell sheer two thousand
feet to Shamlegh-midden, where never yet man has set foot.

The men made no motion to divide the plunder till they had seen the
lama bedded down in the best room of the place, with Kim shampooing his
feet, Mohammedan-fashion.

'We will send food,' said the Ao-chung man, 'and the red-topped kilta.
By dawn there will be none to give evidence, one way or the other.  If
anything is not needed in the kilta--see here!'

He pointed through the window--opening into space that was filled with
moonlight reflected from the snow--and threw out an empty whisky-bottle.

'No need to listen for the fall.  This is the world's end,' he said,
and went out.  The lama looked forth, a hand on either sill, with eyes
that shone like yellow opals.  From the enormous pit before him white
peaks lifted themselves yearning to the moonlight.  The rest was as the
darkness of interstellar space.

'These,' he said slowly, 'are indeed my Hills.  Thus should a man
abide, perched above the world, separated from delights, considering
vast matters.'

'Yes; if he has a chela to prepare tea for him, and to fold a blanket
for his head, and to chase out calving cows.'

A smoky lamp burned in a niche, but the full moonlight beat it down;
and by the mixed light, stooping above the food-bag and cups, Kim moved
like a tall ghost.

'Ai!  But now I have let the blood cool, my head still beats and drums,
and there is a cord round the back of my neck.'

'No wonder.  It was a strong blow.  May he who dealt it--'

'But for my own passions there would have been no evil.'

'What evil?  Thou hast saved the Sahibs from the death they deserved a
hundred times.'

'The lesson is not well learnt, chela.'  The lama came to rest on a
folded blanket, as Kim went forward with his evening routine.  'The
blow was but a shadow upon a shadow.  Evil in itself--my legs weary
apace these latter days!--it met evil in me:  anger, rage, and a lust
to return evil.  These wrought in my blood, woke tumult in my stomach,
and dazzled my ears.'  Here he drank scalding black-tea ceremonially,
taking the hot cup from Kim's hand.  'Had I been passionless, the evil
blow would have done only bodily evil--a scar, or a bruise--which is
illusion.  But my mind was not abstracted, for rushed in straightway a
lust to let the Spiti men kill.  In fighting that lust, my soul was
torn and wrenched beyond a thousand blows.  Not till I had repeated the
Blessings' (he meant the Buddhist Beatitudes) 'did I achieve calm.  But
the evil planted in me by that moment's carelessness works out to its
end.  Just is the Wheel, swerving not a hair!  Learn the lesson, chela.'

'It is too high for me,' Kim muttered.  'I am still all shaken.  I am
glad I hurt the man.'

'I felt that, sleeping upon thy knees, in the wood below.  It
disquieted me in my dreams--the evil in thy soul working through to
mine.  Yet on the other hand'--he loosed his rosary--'I have acquired
merit by saving two lives--the lives of those that wronged me.  Now I
must see into the Cause of Things.  The boat of my soul staggers.'

'Sleep, and be strong.  That is wisest.'

'I meditate.  There is a need greater than thou knowest.'

Till the dawn, hour after hour, as the moonlight paled on the high
peaks, and that which had been belted blackness on the sides of the far
hills showed as tender green forest, the lama stared fixedly at the
wall.  From time to time he groaned.  Outside the barred door, where
discomfited kine came to ask for their old stable, Shamlegh and the
coolies gave itself up to plunder and riotous living.  The Ao-chung man
was their leader, and once they had opened the Sahibs' tinned foods and
found that they were very good they dared not turn back.  Shamlegh
kitchen-midden took the dunnage.

When Kim, after a night of bad dreams, stole forth to brush his teeth
in the morning chill, a fair-coloured woman with turquoise-studded
headgear drew him aside.

'The others have gone.  They left thee this kilta as the promise was. I
do not love Sahibs, but thou wilt make us a charm in return for it.  We
do not wish little Shamlegh to get a bad name on account of
the--accident.  I am the Woman of Shamlegh.'  She looked him over with
bold, bright eyes, unlike the usual furtive glance of hillwomen.

'Assuredly.  But it must be done in secret.'

She raised the heavy kilta like a toy and slung it into her own hut.

'Out and bar the door!  Let none come near till it is finished,' said
Kim.

'But afterwards--we may talk?'

Kim tilted the kilta on the floor--a cascade of Survey-instruments,
books, diaries, letters, maps, and queerly scented native
correspondence.  At the very bottom was an embroidered bag covering a
sealed, gilded, and illuminated document such as one King sends to
another.  Kim caught his breath with delight, and reviewed the
situation from a Sahib's point of view.

'The books I do not want.  Besides, they are logarithms--Survey, I
suppose.'  He laid them aside.  'The letters I do not understand, but
Colonel Creighton will.  They must all be kept.  The maps--they draw
better maps than me--of course.  All the native letters--oho!--and
particularly the murasla.'  He sniffed the embroidered bag.  'That must
be from Hilas or Bunar, and Hurree Babu spoke truth.  By Jove! It is a
fine haul.  I wish Hurree could know ...  The rest must go out of the
window.'  He fingered a superb prismatic compass and the shiny top of a
theodolite.  But after all, a Sahib cannot very well steal, and the
things might be inconvenient evidence later.  He sorted out every scrap
of manuscript, every map, and the native letters.  They made one
softish slab.  The three locked ferril-backed books, with five worn
pocket-books, he put aside.

'The letters and the murasla I must carry inside my coat and under my
belt, and the hand-written books I must put into the food-bag.  It will
be very heavy.  No.  I do not think there is anything more.  If there
is, the coolies have thrown it down the khud, so thatt is all right.
Now you go too.'  He repacked the kilta with all he meant to lose, and
hove it up on to the windowsill.  A thousand feet below lay a long,
lazy, round-shouldered bank of mist, as yet untouched by the morning
sun.  A thousand feet below that was a hundred-year-old pine-forest.
He could see the green tops looking like a bed of moss when a wind-eddy
thinned the cloud.

'No!  I don't think any one will go after you!'

The wheeling basket vomited its contents as it dropped.  The theodolite
hit a jutting cliff-ledge and exploded like a shell; the books,
inkstands, paint-boxes, compasses, and rulers showed for a few seconds
like a swarm of bees.  Then they vanished; and, though Kim, hanging
half out of the window, strained his young ears, never a sound came up
from the gulf.

'Five hundred--a thousand rupees could not buy them,' he thought
sorrowfully.  'It was verree wasteful, but I have all their other
stuff--everything they did--I hope.  Now how the deuce am I to tell
Hurree Babu, and whatt the deuce am I to do?  And my old man is sick. I
must tie up the letters in oilskin.  That is something to do
first--else they will get all sweated ...  And I am all alone!'  He
bound them into a neat packet, swedging down the stiff, sticky oilskin
at the comers, for his roving life had made him as methodical as an old
hunter in matters of the road.  Then with double care he packed away
the books at the bottom of the food-bag.

The woman rapped at the door.

'But thou hast made no charm,' she said, looking about.

'There is no need.'  Kim had completely overlooked the necessity for a
little patter-talk.  The woman laughed at his confusion irreverently.

'None--for thee.  Thou canst cast a spell by the mere winking of an
eye.  But think of us poor people when thou art gone.  They were all
too drunk last night to hear a woman.  Thou art not drunk?'

'I am a priest.'  Kim had recovered himself, and, the woman being aught
but unlovely, thought best to stand on his office.

'I warned them that the Sahibs will be angry and will make an
inquisition and a report to the Rajah.  There is also the Babu with
them.  Clerks have long tongues.'

'Is that all thy trouble?'  The plan rose fully formed in Kim's mind,
and he smiled ravishingly.

'Not all,' quoth the woman, putting out a hard brown hand all covered
with turquoises set in silver.

'I can finish that in a breath,' he went on quickly.  'The Babu is the
very hakim (thou hast heard of him?) who was wandering among the hills
by Ziglaur.  I know him.'

'He will tell for the sake of a reward.  Sahibs cannot distinguish one
hillman from another, but Babus have eyes for men--and women.'

'Carry a word to him from me.'

'There is nothing I would not do for thee.'

He accepted the compliment calmly, as men must in lands where women
make the love, tore a leaf from a note-book, and with a patent
indelible pencil wrote in gross Shikast--the script that bad little
boys use when they write dirt on walls:  'I have everything that they
have written:  their pictures of the country, and many letters.
Especially the murasla.  Tell me what to do.  I am at
Shamlegh-under-the-Snow.  The old man is sick.'

'Take this to him.  It will altogether shut his mouth.  He cannot have
gone far.'

'Indeed no.  They are still in the forest across the spur.  Our
children went to watch them when the light came, and have cried the
news as they moved.'

Kim looked his astonishment; but from the edge of the sheep-pasture
floated a shrill, kite-like trill.  A child tending cattle had picked
it up from a brother or sister on the far side of the slope that
commanded Chini valley.

'My husbands are also out there gathering wood.'  She drew a handful of
walnuts from her bosom, split one neatly, and began to eat.  Kim
affected blank ignorance.

'Dost thou not know the meaning of the walnut--priest?'  she said
coyly, and handed him the half-shells.

'Well thought of.'  He slipped the piece of paper between them quickly.
'Hast thou a little wax to close them on this letter?'

The woman sighed aloud, and Kim relented.

'There is no payment till service has been rendered.  Carry this to the
Babu, and say it was sent by the Son of the Charm.'

'Ai!  Truly!  Truly!  By a magician--who is like a Sahib.'

'Nay, a Son of the Charm:  and ask if there be any answer.'

'But if he offer a rudeness?  I--I am afraid.'

Kim laughed.  'He is, I have no doubt, very tired and very hungry. The
Hills make cold bedfellows.  Hai, my'--it was on the tip of his tongue
to say Mother, but he turned it to Sister--'thou art a wise and witty
woman.  By this time all the villages know what has befallen the
Sahibs--eh?'

'True.  News was at Ziglaur by midnight, and by tomorrow should be at
Kotgarh.  The villages are both afraid and angry.'

'No need.  Tell the villages to feed the Sahibs and pass them on, in
peace.  We must get them quietly away from our valleys.  To steal is
one thing--to kill another.  The Babu will understand, and there will
be no after-complaints.  Be swift.  I must tend my master when he
wakes.'

'So be it.  After service--thou hast said?--comes the reward.  I am the
Woman of Shamlegh, and I hold from the Rajah.  I am no common bearer of
babes.  Shamlegh is thine:  hoof and horn and hide, milk and butter.
Take or leave.'

She turned resolutely uphill, her silver necklaces clicking on her
broad breast, to meet the morning sun fifteen hundred feet above them.
This time Kim thought in the vernacular as he waxed down the oilskin
edges of the packets.

'How can a man follow the Way or the Great Game when he is so--always
pestered by women?  There was that girl at Akrola of the Ford; and
there was the scullion's wife behind the dovecot--not counting the
others--and now comes this one!  When I was a child it was well enough,
but now I am a man and they will not regard me as a man. Walnuts,
indeed!  Ho!  ho!  It is almonds in the Plains!'

He went out to levy on the village--not with a begging-bowl, which
might do for down-country, but in the manner of a prince.  Shamlegh's
summer population is only three families--four women and eight or nine
men.  They were all full of tinned meats and mixed drinks, from
ammoniated quinine to white vodka, for they had taken their full share
in the overnight loot.  The neat Continental tents had been cut up and
shared long ago, and there were patent aluminium saucepans abroad.

But they considered the lama's presence a perfect safeguard against all
consequences, and impenitently brought Kim of their best--even to a
drink of chang--the barley-beer that comes from Ladakh-way. Then they
thawed out in the sun, and sat with their legs hanging over infinite
abysses, chattering, laughing, and smoking.  They judged India and its
Government solely from their experience of wandering Sahibs who had
employed them or their friends as shikarris.  Kim heard tales of shots
missed upon ibex, serow, or markhor, by Sahibs twenty years in their
graves--every detail lighted from behind like twigs on tree-tops seen
against lightning. They told him of their little diseases, and, more
important, the diseases of their tiny, sure-footed cattle; of trips as
far as Kotgarh, where the strange missionaries live, and beyond even to
marvellous Simla, where the streets are paved with silver, and anyone,
look you, can get service with the Sahibs, who ride about in
two-wheeled carts and spend money with a spade.  Presently, grave and
aloof, walking very heavily, the lama joined himself to the chatter
under the eaves, and they gave him great room.  The thin air refreshed
him, and he sat on the edge of precipices with the best of them, and,
when talk languished, flung pebbles into the void.  Thirty miles away,
as the eagle flies, lay the next range, seamed and channelled and
pitted with little patches of brush--forests, each a day's dark march.
Behind the village, Shamlegh hill itself cut off all view to southward.
It was like sitting in a swallow's nest under the eaves of the roof of
the world.

From time to time the lama stretched out his hand, and with a little
low-voiced prompting would point out the road to Spiti and north across
the Parungla.

'Beyond, where the hills lie thickest, lies De-ch'en' (he meant
Han-le'), 'the great Monastery.  s'Tag-stan-ras-ch'en built it, and of
him there runs this tale.'  Whereupon he told it:  a fantastic piled
narrative of bewitchment and miracles that set Shamlegh a-gasping.
Turning west a little, he steered for the green hills of Kulu, and
sought Kailung under the glaciers.  'For thither came I in the old, old
days.  From Leh I came, over the Baralachi.'

'Yes, yes; we know it,' said the far-faring people of Shamlegh.

'And I slept two nights with the priests of Kailung.  These are the
Hills of my delight!  Shadows blessed above all other shadows!  There
my eyes opened on this world; there my eyes were opened to this world;
there I found Enlightenment; and there I girt my loins for my Search.
Out of the Hills I came--the high Hills and the strong winds.  Oh, just
is the Wheel!'  He blessed them in detail--the great glaciers, the
naked rocks, the piled moraines and tumbled shale; dry upland, hidden
salt-lake, age-old timber and fruitful water-shot valley one after the
other, as a dying man blesses his folk; and Kim marvelled at his
passion.

'Yes--yes.  There is no place like our Hills,' said the people of
Shamlegh.  And they fell to wondering how a man could live in the hot
terrible Plains where the cattle run as big as elephants, unfit to
plough on a hillside; where village touches village, they had heard,
for a hundred miles; where folk went about stealing in gangs, and what
the robbers spared the Police carried utterly away.

So the still forenoon wore through, and at the end of it Kim's
messenger dropped from the steep pasture as unbreathed as when she had
set out.

'I sent a word to the hakim,' Kim explained, while she made reverence.

'He joined himself to the idolaters?  Nay, I remember he did a healing
upon one of them.  He has acquired merit, though the healed employed
his strength for evil.  Just is the Wheel!  What of the hakim?'

'I feared that thou hadst been bruised and--and I knew he was wise.'
Kim took the waxed walnut-shell and read in English on the back of his
note:  Your favour received.  Cannot get away from present company at
present, but shall take them into Simla.  After which, hope to rejoin
you.  Inexpedient to follow angry gentlemen.  Return by same road you
came, and will overtake.  Highly gratified about correspondence due to
my forethought.  'He says, Holy One, that he will escape from the
idolaters, and will return to us.  Shall we wait awhile at Shamlegh,
then?'

The lama looked long and lovingly upon the hills and shook his head.

'That may not be, chela.  From my bones outward I do desire it, but it
is forbidden.  I have seen the Cause of Things.'

'Why?  When the Hills give thee back thy strength day by day? Remember
we were weak and fainting down below there in the Doon.'

'I became strong to do evil and to forget.  A brawler and a
swashbuckler upon the hillsides was I.' Kim bit back a smile.  'Just
and perfect is the Wheel, swerving not a hair.  When I was a man--a
long time ago--I did pilgrimage to Guru Ch'wan among the poplars' (he
pointed Bhotanwards), 'where they keep the Sacred Horse.'

'Quiet, be quiet!'  said Shamlegh, all arow.  'He speaks of
Jam-lin-nin-k'or, the Horse That Can Go Round The World In a Day.'

'I speak to my chela only,' said the lama, in gentle reproof, and they
scattered like frost on south eaves of a morning.  'I did not seek
truth in those days, but the talk of doctrine.  All illusion!  I drank
the beer and ate the bread of Guru Ch'wan.  Next day one said: "We go
out to fight Sangor Gutok down the valley to discover" (mark again how
Lust is tied to Anger!) "which Abbot shall bear rule in the valley and
take the profit of the prayers they print at Sangor Gutok."  I went,
and we fought a day.'

'But how, Holy One?'

'With our long pencases as I could have shown ...  I say, we fought
under the poplars, both Abbots and all the monks, and one laid open my
forehead to the bone.  See!'  He tilted back his cap and showed a
puckered silvery scar.  'Just and perfect is the Wheel! Yesterday the
scar itched, and after fifty years I recalled how it was dealt and the
face of him who dealt it; dwelling a little in illusion.  Followed that
which thou didst see--strife and stupidity. Just is the Wheel!  The
idolater's blow fell upon the scar.  Then I was shaken in my soul:  my
soul was darkened, and the boat of my soul rocked upon the waters of
illusion.  Not till I came to Shamlegh could I meditate upon the Cause
of Things, or trace the running grass-roots of Evil.  I strove all the
long night.'

'But, Holy One, thou art innocent of all evil.  May I be thy sacrifice!'

Kim was genuinely distressed at the old man's sorrow, and Mahbub Ali's
phrase slipped out unawares.

'In the dawn,' the lama went on more gravely, ready rosary clicking
between the slow sentences, 'came enlightenment.  It is here ...  I am
an old man ...  hill-bred, hill-fed, never to sit down among my Hills.
Three years I travelled through Hind, but--can earth be stronger than
Mother Earth?  My stupid body yearned to the Hills and the snows of the
Hills, from below there.  I said, and it is true, my Search is sure.
So, at the Kulu woman's house I turned hillward, over-persuaded by
myself.  There is no blame to the hakim.  He--following
Desire--foretold that the Hills would make me strong. They strengthened
me to do evil, to forget my Search.  I delighted in life and the lust
of life.  I desired strong slopes to climb.  I cast about to find them.
I measured the strength of my body, which is evil, against the high
Hills, I made a mock of thee when thy breath came short under Jamnotri.
I jested when thou wouldst not face the snow of the pass.'

'But what harm?  I was afraid.  It was just.  I am not a hillman; and I
loved thee for thy new strength.'

'More than once I remember'--he rested his cheek dolefully on his
hand--'I sought thy praise and the hakim's for the mere strength of my
legs.  Thus evil followed evil till the cup was full.  Just is the
Wheel!  All Hind for three years did me all honour.  From the Fountain
of Wisdom in the Wonder House to'--he smiled--'a little child playing
by a big gun--the world prepared my road.  And why?'

'Because we loved thee.  It is only the fever of the blow.  I myself am
still sick and shaken.'

'No!  It was because I was upon the Way--tuned as are si-nen [cymbals]
to the purpose of the Law.  I departed from that ordinance. The tune
was broken:  followed the punishment.  In my own Hills, on the edge of
my own country, in the very place of my evil desire, comes the
buffet--here!'  (He touched his brow.) 'As a novice is beaten when he
misplaces the cups, so am I beaten, who was Abbot of Such-zen.  No
word, look you, but a blow, chela.'

'But the Sahibs did not know thee, Holy One?'

'We were well matched.  Ignorance and Lust met Ignorance and Lust upon
the road, and they begat Anger.  The blow was a sign to me, who am no
better than a strayed yak, that my place is not here.  Who can read the
Cause of an act is halfway to Freedom!  "Back to the path," says the
Blow.  "The Hills are not for thee.  Thou canst not choose Freedom and
go in bondage to the delight of life."'

'Would we had never met that cursed Russian!'

'Our Lord Himself cannot make the Wheel swing backward.  And for my
merit that I had acquired I gain yet another sign.'  He put his hand in
his bosom, and drew forth the Wheel of Life.  'Look!  I considered this
after I had meditated.  There remains untorn by the idolater no more
than the breadth of my fingernail.'

'I see.'

'So much, then, is the span of my life in this body.  I have served the
Wheel all my days.  Now the Wheel serves me.  But for the merit I have
acquired in guiding thee upon the Way, there would have been added to
me yet another life ere I had found my River.  Is it plain, chela?'

Kim stared at the brutally disfigured chart.  From left to right
diagonally the rent ran--from the Eleventh House where Desire gives
birth to the Child (as it is drawn by Tibetans)--across the human and
animal worlds, to the Fifth House--the empty House of the Senses.  The
logic was unanswerable.

'Before our Lord won Enlightenment'--the lama folded all away with
reverence--'He was tempted.  I too have been tempted, but it is
finished.  The Arrow fell in the Plains--not in the Hills. Therefore,
what make we here?'

'Shall we at least wait for the hakim?'

'I know how long I shall live in this body.  What can a hakim do?'

'But thou art all sick and shaken.  Thou canst not walk.'

'How can I be sick if I see Freedom?'  He rose unsteadily to his feet.

'Then I must get food from the village.  Oh, the weary Road!'  Kim felt
that he too needed rest.

'That is lawful.  Let us eat and go.  The Arrow fell in the Plains ...
but I yielded to Desire.  Make ready, chela.'

Kim turned to the woman with the turquoise headgear who had been idly
pitching pebbles over the cliff.  She smiled very kindly.

'I found him like a strayed buffalo in a cornfield--the Babu; snorting
and sneezing with cold.  He was so hungry that he forgot his dignity
and gave me sweet words.  The Sahibs have nothing.'  She flung out an
empty palm.  'One is very sick about the stomach.  Thy work?'

Kim nodded, with a bright eye.

'I spoke to the Bengali first--and to the people of a near-by village
after.  The Sahibs will be given food as they need it--nor will the
people ask money.  The plunder is already distributed.  The Babu makes
lying speeches to the Sahibs.  Why does he not leave them?'

'Out of the greatness of his heart.'

'Was never a Bengali yet had one bigger than a dried walnut.  But it is
no matter ...  Now as to walnuts.  After service comes reward.  I have
said the village is thine.'

'It is my loss,' Kim began.  'Even now I had planned desirable things
in my heart which'--there is no need to go through the compliments
proper to these occasions.  He sighed deeply ...  'But my master, led
by a vision--'

'Huh!  What can old eyes see except a full begging-bowl?'

'--turns from this village to the Plains again.'

'Bid him stay.'

Kim shook his head.  'I know my Holy One, and his rage if he be
crossed,' he replied impressively.  'His curses shake the Hills.'

'Pity they did not save him from a broken head!  I heard that thou wast
the tiger-hearted one who smote the Sahib.  Let him dream a little
longer.  Stay!'

'Hillwoman,' said Kim, with austerity that could not harden the
outlines of his young oval face, 'these matters are too high for thee.'

'The Gods be good to us!  Since when have men and women been other than
men and women?'

'A priest is a priest.  He says he will go upon this hour.  I am his
chela, and I go with him.  We need food for the Road.  He is an
honoured guest in all the villages, but'--he broke into a pure boy's
grin--'the food here is good.  Give me some.'

'What if I do not give it thee?  I am the woman of this village.'

'Then I curse thee--a little--not greatly, but enough to remember.'  He
could not help smiling.

'Thou hast cursed me already by the down-dropped eyelash and the
uplifted chin.  Curses?  What should I care for mere words?'  She
clenched her hands upon her bosom ...  'But I would not have thee to go
in anger, thinking hardly of me--a gatherer of cow-dung and grass at
Shamlegh, but still a woman of substance.'

'I think nothing,' said Kim, 'but that I am grieved to go, for I am
very weary; and that we need food.  Here is the bag.'

The woman snatched it angrily.  'I was foolish,' said she.  'Who is thy
woman in the Plains?  Fair or black?  I was fair once.  Laughest thou?
Once, long ago, if thou canst believe, a Sahib looked on me with
favour.  Once, long ago, I wore European clothes at the Mission-house
yonder.'  She pointed towards Kotgarh.  'Once, long ago.  I was
Ker-lis-ti-an and spoke English--as the Sahibs speak it.  Yes.  My
Sahib said he would return and wed me--yes, wed me.  He went away--I
had nursed him when he was sick--but he never returned.  Then I saw
that the Gods of the Kerlistians lied, and I went back to my own people
...  I have never set eyes on a Sahib since.  (Do not laugh at me.  The
fit is past, little priestling.) Thy face and thy walk and thy fashion
of speech put me in mind of my Sahib, though thou art only a wandering
mendicant to whom I give a dole.  Curse me?  Thou canst neither curse
nor bless!'  She set her hands on her hips and laughed bitterly.  'Thy
Gods are lies; thy works are lies; thy words are lies.  There are no
Gods under all the Heavens.  I know it ...  But for awhile I thought it
was my Sahib come back, and he was my God. Yes, once I made music on a
pianno in the Mission-house at Kotgarh. Now I give alms to priests who
are heatthen.'  She wound up with the English word, and tied the mouth
of the brimming bag.

'I wait for thee, chela,' said the lama, leaning against the door-post.

The woman swept the tall figure with her eyes.  'He walk!  He cannot
cover half a mile.  Whither would old bones go?'

At this Kim, already perplexed by the lama's collapse and foreseeing
the weight of the bag, fairly lost his temper.

'What is it to thee, woman of ill-omen, where he goes?'

'Nothing--but something to thee, priest with a Sahib's face.  Wilt thou
carry him on thy shoulders?'

'I go to the Plains.  None must hinder my return.  I have wrestled with
my soul till I am strengthless.  The stupid body is spent, and we are
far from the Plains.'

'Behold!'  she said simply, and drew aside to let Kim see his own utter
helplessness.  'Curse me.  Maybe it will give him strength.  Make a
charm!  Call on thy great God.  Thou art a priest.'  She turned away.

The lama had squatted limply, still holding by the door-post.  One
cannot strike down an old man that he recovers again like a boy in the
night.  Weakness bowed him to the earth, but his eyes that hung on Kim
were alive and imploring.

'It is all well,' said Kim.  'It is the thin air that weakens thee. In
a little while we go!  It is the mountain-sickness.  I too am a little
sick at stomach,'--and he knelt and comforted with such poor words as
came first to his lips.  Then the woman returned, more erect than ever.

'Thy Gods useless, heh?  Try mine.  I am the Woman of Shamlegh.'  She
hailed hoarsely, and there came out of a cow-pen her two husbands and
three others with a dooli, the rude native litter of the Hills, that
they use for carrying the sick and for visits of state.  'These
cattle'--she did not condescend to look at them--'are thine for so long
as thou shalt need.'

'But we will not go Simla-way.  We will not go near the Sahibs,' cried
the first husband.

'They will not run away as the others did, nor will they steal baggage.
Two I know for weaklings.  Stand to the rear-pole, Sonoo and Taree.'
They obeyed swiftly.  'Lower now, and lift in that holy man. I will see
to the village and your virtuous wives till ye return.'

'When will that be?'

'Ask the priests.  Do not pester me.  Lay the food-bag at the foot, it
balances better so.'

'Oh, Holy One, thy Hills are kinder than our Plains!'  cried Kim,
relieved, as the lama tottered to the litter.  'It is a very king's
bed--a place of honour and ease.  And we owe it to--'

'A woman of ill-omen.  I need thy blessings as much as I do thy curses.
It is my order and none of thine.  Lift and away!  Here!  Hast thou
money for the road?'

She beckoned Kim to her hut, and stooped above a battered English
cash-box under her cot.

'I do not need anything,' said Kim, angered where he should have been
grateful.  'I am already rudely loaded with favours.'

She looked up with a curious smile and laid a hand on his shoulder. 'At
least, thank me.  I am foul-faced and a hillwoman, but, as thy talk
goes, I have acquired merit.  Shall I show thee how the Sahibs render
thanks?'  and her hard eyes softened.

'I am but a wandering priest,' said Kim, his eyes lighting in answer.
'Thou needest neither my blessings nor my curses.'

'Nay.  But for one little moment--thou canst overtake the dooli in ten
strides--if thou wast a Sahib, shall I show thee what thou wouldst do?'

'How if I guess, though?'  said Kim, and putting his arm round her
waist, he kissed her on the cheek, adding in English:  'Thank you
verree much, my dear.'

Kissing is practically unknown among Asiatics, which may have been the
reason that she leaned back with wide-open eyes and a face of panic.

'Next time,' Kim went on, 'you must not be so sure of your heatthen
priests.  Now I say good-bye.'  He held out his hand English-fashion.
She took it mechanically.  'Good-bye, my dear.'

'Good-bye, and--and'--she was remembering her English words one by
one--'you will come back again?  Good-bye, and--thee God bless you.'

Half an hour later, as the creaking litter jolted up the hill path that
leads south-easterly from Shamlegh, Kim saw a tiny figure at the hut
door waving a white rag.

'She has acquired merit beyond all others,' said the lama.  'For to set
a man upon the way to Freedom is half as great as though she had
herself found it.'

'Umm,' said Kim thoughtfully, considering the past.  'It may be that I
have acquired merit also ...  At least she did not treat me like a
child.'  He hitched the front of his robe, where lay the slab of
documents and maps, re-stowed the precious food-bag at the lama's feet,
laid his hand on the litter's edge, and buckled down to the slow pace
of the grunting husbands.

'These also acquire merit,' said the lama after three miles.

'More than that, they shall be paid in silver,' quoth Kim.  The Woman
of Shamlegh had given it to him; and it was only fair, he argued, that
her men should earn it back again.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: That night, the bearers promise to bring the Europeans' papers to Kim and the lama. As the lama goes to sleep, he admits to Kim that he continues to feel that he has failed--in that split second after the Russian hit him, the lama wanted revenge on him. So the lama knows that this dark world still has a grasp on him. The next morning, the bearers bring the Europeans's documents, which Kim is supposed to be exorcising. In private, Kim sorts through them out quickly, finding letters, maps, and messages from the Five Kings; he keeps what seems important and throws away all of their heavy surveying equipment and whatnot. A woman from this village of Shamlegh lets Kim know that she is aware of the Babu. Kim passes a message to her to tell the Babu that he has all of the documents they need. The woman is clearly flirting with Kim, even though he is a priest and she is married. The Shamlegh villagers all welcome Kim and the lama. Kim lets the lama know that he has sent for the medicine peddler to help treat the lama's injury. The lama continues to beat himself up for his human weakness. He fears that, in that moment of wanting to hurt the Russian, he gave up on his quest for the River of the Arrow. Kim tries to reassure the lama that this is all dark thinking thanks to shock from his injury, but the lama decides that he has been proud and selfish in deciding to travel in the mountains. He has been boasting of his great hiking abilities--it's the sin of pride. The lama shows Kim his picture of the Wheel of Things, which now has a big tear across it. All of these things are signs that it's time to go south again to find the River of the Arrow at last. The woman from Shamlegh comes back to say that she has found the Babu and he is coming. And now isn't Kim going to give her a reward for her help? Kim makes excuses: the lama says they need to go now, so he has to leave the village in an hour. Sorry, lady. The woman is angry at him and gives Kim a seriously hard time. She tells Kim that she was once in a relationship with a Christian white man, but that he grew ill, went away, and never came back. Although she has been really hurt by Kim's behavior, she still packs a bag of food for Kim and the lama to take with them. As they prepare to leave Shamlegh, Kim gives her a kiss on the cheek and says to her in English, "Thank you very much, my dear" . She thanks him in halting English. Kim and the lama leave the village on a litter carried by the woman's husbands.