of such a master and such a chela when the time came for them to seek freedom together.
So did the lama speak, coming and going across India as softly as a bat. A sharp-tongued old woman in a house among the fruit-trees behind Saharunpore honoured them as the woman honoured the prophet, but his chamber was by no means upon the wall. In an apartment of the forecourt overlooked by cooing doves he would sit, while she laid aside her useless veil and chattered of spirits and fiends of Kubi, of grandchildren unborn, and the free-tongued brat who had talked to her in the resting-place. Once, too, he strayed alone from the Grand Trunk road below Umballa to the very village whose priest had tried to drug him; but the kind heaven that guards lamas sent him at twilight through the crops, clicking his rosary, to the ressaldar's door. Here was like to have been a grave misunderstanding, for the old soldier asked him why the Friend of the Stars had gone that way only six days before.
'That may not be,' said the lama. 'He has gone back to his own people.'
'He sat in that corner telling a hundred merry tales five nights ago,' his host insisted. 'True, he vanished somewhat suddenly in the dawn after foolish talk with my grand-daughter. He grows apace, but he is the same Friend of the Stars as brought me true word of the war. Have ye parted then?'
'Yes—and No,' the lama replied. 'We—we have not altogether parted, but the time is not ripe that we should take the road together. He acquires wisdom in another place. We must wait.'
'All one—but if it were not the boy how did he come to speak so continually of thee?'
'And what said he?' asked the lama eagerly.
'Sweet words—an hundred thousand—that thou art his
