nodded his head valiantly. Learned doctors of a lamassery do not beg, but the lama was an enthusiast in this quest.
'Be it so,' said the curator smiling. 'Suffer me now to acquire merit. We be craftsmen together, thou and I. Here is a new book of white English paper: here be sharpened pencils two and three—thick and thin, all good for a scribe. Now lend me thy spectacles.'
The curator looked through them. They were heavily scratched but the power was almost exactly that of his own pair, which he slid into the lama's hand, saying: 'Try these.'
'A feather! A very feather upon the face!' The old man turned his head delightedly and wrinkled up his nose. 'How scarcely do I feel them! How clearly do I see!'
'They be bilaur—crystal and will never scratch. May they help thee to thy River, for they are thine.'
'I will take them and the pencils and the white note-book,' said the lama, 'as a sign of friendship between priest and priest—and now' he fumbled at his belt, detached the open iron-work pencase, and laid it on the curator's table. 'That is for a memory between thee and me—my pencase. It is something old—even as I am.'
It was a piece of ancient design, Chinese, of an iron that is not smelted in these days; and the collector's heart in the curator's bosom had gone out to it from the first. For no persuasion would the lama resume his gift.
'When I return, having found the River, I will bring thee a written picture of the Padma Samthora—such as I used to make on silk at the lamassery. Yes—and of the Wheel of Life,' he chuckled, 'for we be craftsmen together, thou and I.'
The curator would have detained him: they are few in the world
