He was indeed an outlander, but yet a
Thibetan in language, habit and attire. He spoke the Lepcha dialect with an
indescribable softening of the gutturals. It was not so much a lisp as an
accent.
"Whence comest thou?" I asked, wondering.
"From Thibet." He pointed across the hills and grinned. That grin went straight
to my heart. Mechanically I held out my hand and Namgay Doola took it. No pure
Thibetan would have understood the meaning of the gesture. He went away to look
for his clothes, and as he climbed back to his village, I heard a joyous yell
that seemed unaccountably familiar. It was the whooping of Namgay Doola.
"You see now," said the king, "why I would not kill him. He is a bold man among
my logs, but," and he shook his head like a schoolmaster, "I know that before
long there will be complaints of him in the court. Let us return to the palace
and do justice."
It was that king's custom to judge his subjects every day between eleven and
three o'clock. I heard him do justice equitably on weighty matters of trespass,
slander, and a little wife-stealing. Then his brow clouded and he summoned me.
"Again it is Namgay Doola," he said, despairingly. "Not content with refusing
revenue on his own part, he has bound half his village by an oath to the like
treason.
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