'A little behind Saharunpore, among the fruit gardens.' He named the village.
'That was the place,' said the lama. 'So far, at least, we can go with her.'
'Flies go to carrion,' said the Oorya, in an abstracted voice.
'For the sick cow a crow; for the sick man a Brahmin.' Kim quoted the proverb impersonally to the shadow-tops of the trees overhead.
The Oorya grunted and held his peace.
'So then we go with her, Holy One?'
'Is there any reason against? I can still step aside and try all the rivers that the road overpasses. She desires that I should come. She very greatly desires it.'
Kim stifled a laugh in the quilt. When once that imperious old lady had recovered from her natural awe of a lama he thought it probable that she would be worth listening to.
He was nearly asleep when the lama suddenly quoted a proverb: 'The husbands of the talkative have a great reward hereafter.' Then Kim heard him snuff thrice, and dozed off, still laughing.
The diamond-bright dawn woke men and cows and bullocks together. Kim sat up and yawned, shook himself, and thrilled with delight. This was seeing the world in real truth; this was life as he would have it bustling and shouting, the buckling of belts, and beating of bullocks and creaking of wheels, lighting of fires and cooking of food, and new sights at every turn of the approving eye. The morning mist swept off in a whirl of silver; the parrots shot away to some distant river in shrieking green hosts: all the well-wheels within earshot were at work. India was awake, and Kim was in the middle of it, more awake and more excited than any one, chewing on a twig that he would presently use as a tooth-
