he is in his own country, and yet in a measure an alien ;
a judge, but of doubtful honour; a pro-consul in his
way, but a son of the jungle in his innermost heart.
After him, slowly pacing through the forest, comes
a man of both worlds, a potkoodaw. His nondescript
garments are neither lay nor clerical; from their colour
one might fancy them to be the cast-off garments of a
monk, worn with usage, and soiled by the wayside
dust. The pole he
carries over his
shoulders, with a
basket slung at
each end, is unmistakably
lay; the
yellowparasol, with
the sunlight pouring
through it on
his shaven head, is
of clerical suggestion.
His carriage
is grave and reverend;
his manner is .that of a saint; and his two
companions address him in words suitable to these
pretensions. He is in reality a simple-hearted and
devout old man, upon whom the conviction of holiness
has grown ; he spends his life in pious works, and has
put the world behind him; but he is not a monk.
His companions are a pair of old and wrinkled Shan,
with faces graven like the face of a sailor—originals
both. One of them carries an English pipe, which he
628 PACING THROUGH TH E FOREST