She breathed through him to restore the poise he had lost lying so long on a cot cut off from her good currents.

His head lay powerless upon her breast, and his opened hands surrendered to her strength.

The many-rooted tree above him, and even the dead manhandled wood beside, knew what he sought, as he himself did not know.

Hour upon hour he lay deeper than sleep.
Towards evening, when the dust of returning kine made all the horizons smoke, came the lama and Mahbub Ali, both afoot, walking cautiously, for the house had told them where he had gone.
'Allah! What a fool's trick to play in open country!' muttered the horse-dealer.

'He could be shot a hundred times--but this is not the Border.' 'And,' said the lama, repeating a many-times-told tale, 'never was such a chela.