Mrs. Brudenel's ayah, who was much attached to her kind young mistress, brought a glass of claret and a biscuit to her, and begged her to take it so earnestly that she would not refuse, and she persuaded Wills to have the same.
Then the long waiting recommenced, and then a restless pacing of the verandah, the walks in the compound, the house itself. They could settle to nothing.
At last a servant ran up to the drawing-room window, when Mrs. Brudenel's eyes were bent down upon her Bible, and, for the twentieth time, she was trying to calm her beating pulses with the words, "Let not your heart be troubled."
"They come, lady! They come, missie! Master is come!"
She sprang to her feet. Yes, there was Mr. Brudenel at the head of his men, crossing the ford in the valley beneath her feet. There was Mr. Gilchrist, waving his hat frantically. There was Osborn, hand to mouth, evidently yelling out "Hooray!" at the top of his voice, though still too far off to be heard.
And who else? Behind Mr. Gilchrist appeared a slim, fair-haired lad, in a loose dress of dark native cloth and a wide palm-leaf hat. He lifted his head at Osborn's wild gestures, and waved his hat to Wills.
"Oh, my God, I thank Thee, I humbly thank Thee!" ejaculated the old man fervently.
The servants almost tumbled over each other in their excited haste to see, to prepare, to welcome. Mrs. Brudenel and old Wills shook hands, with streaming eyes, under the relief from the intense strain upon their spirits through so many hours.
The troop entered the compound, and was surrounded by the eager household.
"We have him, Wills," was heard in Mr. Gilchrist's glad voice.