o the
box-seat, and, perfect understanding established, drove for a couple of
hours up and down, estimating, comparing, and enjoying. There is no
city--except Bombay, the queen of all--more beautiful in her garish
style than Lucknow, whether you see her from the bridge over the river,
or from the top of the Imambara looking down on the gilt umbrellas of
the Chutter Munzil, and the trees in which the town is bedded. Kings
have adorned her with fantastic buildings, endowed her with charities,
crammed her with pensioners, and drenched her with blood. She is the
centre of all idleness, intrigue, and luxury, and shares with Delhi the
claim to talk the only pure Urdu.

'A fair city--a beautiful city.' The driver, as a Lucknow man, was
pleased with the compliment, and told Kim many astounding things where
an English guide would have talked of the Mutiny.

'Now we will go to the school,' said Kim at last. The great old school
of St Xavier's in Partibus, block on block of low white buildings,
stands in vast grounds over against the Gumti River, at some distance
from the city.

'What like of folk are they within?' said Kim.

'Young Sahibs--all devils. But to speak truth, and I drive many of
them to and fro from the railway station, I have never seen one that
had in him the making of a more perfect devil than thou--this young
Sahib whom I am now driving.'

Naturally, for he was never trained to consider them in any way
improper, Kim had passed the time of day with one or two frivolous
ladies at upper windows in a certain street, and naturally, in the
exchange of compliments, had acquitted himself well. He was about to
acknowledge the driver's last insolence, when his eye--it was growing
dusk--caught a figure sitting by one of the white plaster gate-pillars
in the long sweep of wall.

'Stop!' he cried. 'Stay here. I do not go to the school at once.'

'But what is to pay me for this coming and re-coming?' said the driver
petulantly. 'Is the boy mad? Last time it was a dancing-girl. This
time it is a priest.'

Kim was in the road headlong, patting the dusty feet beneath the dirty
yellow robe.

'I have waited here a day and a half,' the lama's level voice began.
'Nay, I had a disciple with me. He that was my friend at the Temple of
the Tirthankars gave me a guide for this journey. I came from Benares
in the te-rain, when thy letter was given me. Yes, I am well fed. I
need nothing.'

'But why didst thou