Yea, voice of every Soul that clung To life that strove from rung to rung When Devadatta’s rule was young, The warm wind brings Kamakura.

Behind them an angry farmer brandished a bamboo pole. He was a market-gardener, Arain by caste, growing vegetables and flowers for Umballa city, and well Kim knew the breed.

“Such an one,” said the lama, disregarding the dogs, “is impolite to strangers, intemperate of speech and uncharitable. Be warned by his demeanour, my disciple.”

“Ho, shameless beggars!” shouted the farmer. “Begone! Get hence!”

“We go,” the lama returned, with quiet dignity. “We go from these unblessed fields.”