linery, had charged it with the regimental device, the Red Bull, which is the crest of the Mavericks—the great Red Bull on a background of Irish green.
'I see, and now I remember,' said the lama. 'Certainly it is the Bull. Certainly, also, the two men came to make all ready.'
'They are soldiers—white soldiers. What said the priest? The sign over against the Bull is the sign of war and armed men. Holy One, this thing, in some way which I do not see, touches my search.'
'True. It is true.' The lama stared fixedly at the device that flamed like a ruby in the dusk. 'The priest at Umballa said that there was the sign of war.'
'What is to do now?'
'Wait. Let us wait,' said the lama.
'Even now the darkness clears,' said Kim. It was only natural that the descending sun should at last strike through the tree-trunks, across the tope, filling it with mealy gold light for a few minutes; but to Kim it was part of the Umballa Brahmin's prophecy.
'Hark!' said the lama. 'One beats a drum—far off!'
At first the sound, carrying far through the still air, resembled the beating of an artery in the head. Then a sharp noise was added to it.
'Ah! The music,' Kim explained. He knew the sound of a regimental band, but it amazed the lama.
At the far end of the plain a heavy, dusty column crawled in sight. Then the wind brought the tune:
We crave your condescension
To tell you what we know
Of marching in the Mulligan Guards
To Sligo Port below.
