le knot of Jain priests, silent but
all-observant, gathered by the temple door. They knew, and Kim knew
that they knew, how the old lama had met his disciple. Being courteous
folk, they had not obtruded themselves overnight by presence, word, or
gesture. Wherefore Kim repaid them as the sun rose.

'Thank the Gods of the Jains, brother,' he said, not knowing how those
Gods were named. 'The fever is indeed broken.'

'Look! See!' The lama beamed in the background upon his hosts of
three years. 'Was there ever such a chela? He follows our Lord the
Healer.'

Now the Jains officially recognize all the Gods of the Hindu creed, as
well as the Lingam and the Snake. They wear the Brahminical thread;
they adhere to every claim of Hindu caste-law. But, because they knew
and loved the lama, because he was an old man, because he sought the
Way, because he was their guest, and because he collogued long of
nights with the head-priest--as free-thinking a metaphysician as ever
split one hair into seventy--they murmured assent.

'Remember,'--Kim bent over the child--. 'this trouble may come again.'

'Not if thou hast the proper spell,' said the father.

'But in a little while we go away.'

'True,' said the lama to all the Jains. 'We go now together upon the
Search whereof I have often spoken. I waited till my chela was ripe.
Behold him! We go North. Never again shall I look upon this place of
my rest, O people of good will.'

'But I am not a beggar.' The cultivator rose to his feet, clutching
the child.

'Be still. Do not trouble the Holy One,' a priest cried.

'Go,' Kim whispered. 'Meet us again under the big railway bridge, and
for the sake of all the Gods of our Punjab, bring food--curry, pulse,
cakes fried in fat, and sweetmeats. Specially sweetmeats. Be swift!'

The pallor of hunger suited Kim very well as he stood, tall and slim,
in his sand-coloured, sweeping robes, one hand on his rosary and the
other in the attitude of benediction, faithfully copied from the lama.
An English observer might have said that he looked rather like the
young saint of a stained-glass window, whereas he was but a growing lad
faint with emptiness.

Long and formal were the farewells, thrice ended and thrice renewed.
The Seeker--he who had invited the lama to that haven from far-away
Tibet, a silver-faced, hairless ascetic--took no part in it, but
meditated, as always, alone among the images. The others were very
human;