It was only natural that the descending sun should at last strike through the tree-trunks, across the grove, filling it with mealy gold light for a few minutes; but to Kim it was the crown of the Umballa Brahmin's prophecy.
'Hark!' said the lama.

'One beats a drum--far off!' At first the sound, carrying diluted through the still air, resembled the beating of an artery in the head.

Soon a sharpness was added.
'Ah! The music,' Kim explained.

He knew the sound of a regimental band, but it amazed the lama.
At the far end of the plain a heavy, dusty column crawled in sight.
Then the wind brought the tune: We crave your condescension To tell you what we know Of marching in the Mulligan Guards To Sligo Port below! Here broke in the shrill-tongued fifes: We shouldered arms, We marched--we marched away.
From Phoenix Park We marched to Dublin Bay.
The drums and the fifes, Oh, sweetly they did play, As we marched--marched--marched--with the Mulligan Guards! 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.