there will I seek for the river. Nay, I will seek everywhere as I go—for the place is not known where the arrow fell.'
'And how wilt thou go? It is a far cry to Delhi, and farther to Benares.'
'By road and the trains. From Pathân Kot, having left the Hills, I came hither in a te-rain. It goes swiftly. At first I was amazed to see those tall poles by the side of the road snatching up and snatching up their threads,'—he illustrated the stoop and whirl of a telegraph pole flashing past the train. 'But later, I was cramped and desired to walk, as I am used.'
'And thou art sure of thy road?' said the curator.
'Oh, for that one but asks a question and pays money, and the appointed persons despatch all to the appointed place. That much I knew in my lamassery from sure report,' said the lama proudly.
'And when dost thou go?' The curator smiled at the mixture of old world piety and modern progress that is the note of India to-day.
'As soon as may be. I follow the places of His life till I come to the River of the Arrow. There is, moreover, a written paper of the hours of the trains that go south.'
'And for food?' Lamas, as a rule, have good store of money somewhere about them, but the curator wished to make sure.
'For the journey, I take up the Master's begging-bowl. Yes. Even as he went so go I, forsaking the ease of my monastery. There was with me when I left the Hills a chela (disciple) who begged for me as the Rule demands, but halting in Kulu a while a fever took him and he died. I have now no chela, but I will take my alms-bowl and thus enable the charitable to acquire merit.' He
