It was the band of the Mavericks playing the regiment to camp; for
the men were route-marching with their baggage. The rippling column
swung into the level - carts behind it divided left and right, ran
about like an ant-hill, and ...

'But this is sorcery!' said the lama.

The plain dotted itself with tents that seemed to rise, all spread,
from the carts. Another rush of men invaded the grove, pitched a
huge tent in silence, ran up yet eight or nine more by the side of
it, unearthed cooking-pots, pans, and bundles, which were taken
possession of by a crowd of native servants; and behold the mango-
tope turned into an orderly town as they watched!

'Let us go,' said the lama, sinking back afraid, as the fires
twinkled and white officers with jingling swords stalked into the
Mess-tent.

'Stand back in the shadow. No one can see beyond the light of a
fire,' said Kim, his eyes still on the flag. He had never before
watched the routine of a seasoned regiment pitching camp in thirty
minutes.

'Look! look! look!' clucked the lama. 'Yonder comes a priest.' It
was Bennett, the Church of England Chaplain of the regiment,
limping in dusty black. One of his flock had made some rude remarks
about the Chaplain's mettle; and to abash him Bennett had marched
step by step with the men that day. The black dress, gold cross on
the watch-chain, the hairless face, and the soft, black wideawake
hat would have marked him as a holy man anywhere in all India. He