The men looked at each other. "Can it be Ralph?" they asked, hope dawning upon each in turn.
"Is his hair like the jungle bushes?" inquired Gilchrist.
"No, no!" said Sunshine, cheering up again. "Moung Yabé is Shway Yabé, golden boy, white as the lady, no hair here," again passing her hand over her face.
Sudden inspiration seized upon Osborn, "Does he sing like this?" asked he, beginning Ralph's well-known "I'll bang my harp on a willow tree."
Sunshine laughed outright. "That is my Moung Yabé's music," said she; and, making it into a literal song without words, she finished the air with great glee.
"My God!—my God is merciful!" ejaculated Mr. Gilchrist. "Osborn, my pony; quick, quick!"
"Oh! are you going to help Mr. Brudenel?" asked his wife. "How good of you! You will keep him safe, won't you, and bring him back unhurt?"
"Tell her, Wills!" shouted Mr. Gilchrist, forgetting his manners utterly as he rushed out to the stable.
Osborn was as excited as he; they snatched down their saddles, had them upon their ponies in three minutes, and were tearing out of the compound before Mrs. Brudenel comprehended anything of the matter.