levels of that locked valley; up, up and out again, to meet the roaring guests off Kedarnath; set down of middays in the dun-gloom of kindly oak-forests; passed from village to village in dawn-chill, when even devotees may be forgiven for swearing at impatient holy men; or by torchlight, when the least fearful think of ghosts, the dooli has reached her last stage. The little hillfolk sweat in the modified heat of the lower Sewaliks, and gather round the priests for their blessing and their wage.
'Ye have acquired merit,' says the lama. 'Merit greater than your knowing. And ye will return to the hills,' he sighs.
'Surely. The high hills as soon as may be.' The bearer rubs his shoulder, drinks water, spits it out again, and readjusts his grass sandal. Kim—his face is drawn and tired—pays very small silver from his belt, heaves out the food-bag, sticks an oilskin packet—they are holy writings—into his bosom, and helps the lama to his feet. The peace has come again into the old man's eyes, and he does not look for the hills to fall down and curse him as he did that terrible night when they were delayed by the flooded river.
The hillmen pick up the dooli and swing out of sight between the scrub clumps.
The lama raises a hand to the rampart of the Himalayas. 'Not with you, O blessed among all hills, fell the Arrow of Our Lord! And never shall I breathe your air again.'
'But thou art ten times the stronger man in this good air,' says Kim, for to his wearied soul appeal the fat, well-cropped, kindly plains. 'Here, or hereabout, fell the Arrow. We will go very softly, perhaps a koss a day, for the Search is sure. But the bag weighs heavy.'
'Ay, our Search is sure. I have come out of great temptation.'
