And ye will return to the Hills,' he sighs.
'Surely.

The high Hills as soon as may be.' The bearer rubs his shoulder, drinks water, spits it out again, and readjusts his grass sandal.

Kim--his face is drawn and tired--pays very small silver from his belt, heaves out the food-bag, crams an oilskin packet--they are holy writings--into his bosom, and helps the lama to his feet.

The peace has come again into the old man's eyes, and he does not look for the hills to fall down and crush him as he did that terrible night when they were delayed by the flooded river.
The men pick up the dooli and swing out of sight between the scrub clumps.
The lama raises a hand toward the rampart of the Himalayas.

'Not with you, O blessed among all hills, fell the Arrow of Our Lord! And never shall I breathe your airs again!' 'But thou art ten times the stronger man in this good air,' says Kim, for to his wearied soul appeal the well-cropped, kindly Plains.