"True," argued Kirke, "but meantime you may be all killed. The dacoits are certain to return, perhaps in much greater force. They will come determined to avenge the deaths of their friends, and they also wear charms. You must take measures for your own safety. Cannot you get help from any neighbours strong enough to protect you? Is there no English station within reach? Could no scout be sent to any British police-station, to tell them of our need and beg assistance? There must be some such place. Cannot we send word to Rangoon?"
The Burmans looked at each other. They knew well enough that there was a police-station within twenty miles of them, but they had concealed the fact from Kirke because they wanted his money. He had brought prosperity to them, and they did not want to lose him. He had proved to be a perfect godsend to them hitherto; but it was plain to them that the reputation of this very prosperity had partly caused the dacoits to assail them.
Would it be best for them now to keep the Englishmen with them longer, and fight the robbers themselves, or to make capital out of helping them to return to their friends, who, out of gratitude, would come and kill the dacoits for them?
The question was hotly debated in the village conclave.
Moung Shway Poh was jealous of Kirke's ascendency. He felt his authority tottering on its throne. Kirke spoke to him in a dictatorial tone, and ordered him about just as if he had been the veriest child, still untattooed; and the old man hated him.
"We have the strangers with us," said he, "just as much as if we sent to the station and had the officers, who would bring good guns, big guns, kill the thieves, and save our houses. They would give us rewards for helping their countrymen; pay for the dacoits' heads—be a revenue to us for all next year. We should have plenty of rice, plenty of smoke, plenty of everything from them. This man has spent all he has now, he cannot have much left; and the boy has nothing at all, though he must eat and be clothed."
But the other side was represented by the sons of the man who was cut down and mutilated by the cruel dahs of the dacoits,—by the children of the poor woman who, with her infant, had shared in her husband's fate, and whose grandmother and little sister had been saved by Ralph.
Other victims had also fallen, and their relations thirsted to avenge blood by blood. They were eager to kill the dacoits themselves. To them, in that case, would belong the glory; to them would the butterfly spirits of the victims be grateful; to them would the price of the dacoits' heads be paid, which would be lost to them if the police shot them instead.
Kirke, having superintended all the defences which he could prevail upon the Burmans to make, sat by the side of Ralph, who was sleeping profoundly on his mat, and watched the council—debating at a little distance—with great anxiety.