'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!'
'Hill-woman,' 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 tired, 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 me, a Sahib looked on me with favour. Once, long ago, I wore European clothes at the Mission-house yonder.' She pointed toward Kotgarh. "Once, long ago, I was Ker-lis-ti-an and spoke English
