'We go to Benares,' said the lama, as soon as he understood the drift of Mahbub Ali's questions. 'The boy and I, I go to seek for a certain River.'
'Maybe--but the boy?'
'He is my disciple. He was sent, I think, to guide me to that River. Sitting under a gun was I when he came suddenly. Such things have befallen the fortunate to whom guidance was allowed. But I remember now, he said he was of this world--a Hindu.'
'And his name?'
'That I did not ask. Is he not my disciple?'
'His country--his race--his village? Mussalman--Sikh Hindu--Jain—low caste or high?'
'Why should I ask? There is neither high nor low in the Middle Way. If he is my chela--does--will--can anyone take him from me? for, look you, without him I shall not find my River.' He wagged his head solemnly.
'None shall take him from thee. Go, sit among my Baltis,' said Mahbub Ali, and the lama drifted off, soothed by the promise.
Continued next week. Tomorrow's installment from The Innocents Abroad by Mark Twain.
Kipling's novel of India and the British empire, published in 1900. Illustration was done for the book by Kipling's father.
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