"My Yabé! My Moung Shway boy!" cried Sunshine.
"Oh, Harry! Harry!" sobbed Mrs. Brudenel, clinging to him.
"My boy, my boy! My dear young master!" exclaimed old Wills.
"Where are the dacoits' heads?" asked the men-servants.
"Was anyone hurt?" asked the ayah, mother to one of the men.
All spoke at once, no one answered anybody else. Ralph nearly wrung Wills' hands off; Osborn thumped him on the back, and slapped his own thighs with triumphant joy; while Mr. Gilchrist's face, as he presented Ralph to Mrs. Brudenel, with his hand upon the lad's shoulder, was good to see.
There were fervent thanksgivings in that house before the inmates retired, but there was little explanation of all which had occurred until, after a quiet night's rest, they all reassembled in the early morning. Then Ralph, in a simple, straightforward manner, recounted his adventures,—told of Kirke's repentance, his goodness to himself, his bravery, and his gallant defence of the village.
"Oh, how well he redeemed the past!" mourned he. "What a fine fellow he was after all, and he has gone without anyone knowing of what he did! I loved him,—he earned the love of all, and the respect too."
The dacoits had been sent to Rangoon for trial, and were all hanged eventually, many crimes being traced to their score.