"
We waited, breathless. The chief Lama approached the altar before the
recess, in front of the great cross-legged, vapidly smiling Buddha.
He bowed himself to the ground three times over, as well as his portly
frame would permit him, knocking his forehead against the floor, just
as Hilda had done; then he proceeded, almost awestruck, to take from
the altar an object wrapped round with gold brocade, and very carefully
guarded. Two acolytes accompanied him. In the most reverent way,
he slowly unwound the folds of gold cloth, and released from its
hiding-place the highly sacred deposit. He held it up before our eyes
with an air of triumph. It was an English bottle!
The label on it shone with gold and bright colours. I could see it was
figured. The figure represented a cat, squatting on its haunches. The
sacred inscription ran, in our own tongue, "Old Tom Gin, Unsweetened."
The monks bowed their heads in profound silence as the sacred thing was
produced. I caught Hilda's eye. "For Heaven's sake," I murmured low,
"don't either of you laugh! If you do, it's all up with us."
They kept their countenances with admirable decorum.
Another idea struck me.
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