murmur round the carriage.

'Though past question we have good Gods Jullundur-way,' said the
cultivator's wife, looking out of the window. 'See how they have
blessed the crops.'

'To search every river in the Punjab is no small matter,' said
her husband. 'For me, a stream that leaves good silt on my land
suffices, and I thank Bhumia, the God of the Home-stead.' He
shrugged one knotted, bronzed shoulder.

'Think you our Lord came so far North?' said the lama, turning to
Kim.

'It may be,' Kim replied soothingly, as he spat red pan-juice on
the floor.

'The last of the Great Ones,' said the Sikh with authority, 'was
Sikander Julkarn [Alexander the Great]. He paved the streets of
Jullundur and built a great tank near Umballa. That pavement
holds to this day; and the tank is there also. I never heard of
thy God.'

'Let thy hair grow long and talk Punjabi,' said the young soldier
jestingly to Kim, quoting a Northern proverb. 'That is all that
makes a Sikh.' But he did not say this very loud.

The lama sighed and shrank into himself, a dingy, shapeless mass.
In the pauses of their talk they could hear the low droning 'Om
mane pudme hum! Om mane pudme hum!' - and the thick click of the