“You’re a trump, squire!” said Amos Sanderson. “I never felt so relieved in the whole course of my life. Come and untie me.”
William Penrose took a jack-knife from his pocket, but he untied Bernard first.
“You have the prior claim on me,” he said.
It was found that two of the bandits were dead.
The third was taken by the soldiers, and carried on an extemporized litter to the nearest town, where he was imprisoned, but later tried and sentenced to be executed.
Overjoyed at their unexpected rescue from peril, the three travelers made the best of their way to Naples, where, despite the loss of five thousand scudi, Walter Cunningham and Amos Sanderson enjoyed themselves by trips to Mt. Vesuvius, Pompeii, and a ride to Sorrento along the shores of the magnificent Bay of Naples.
“Have you consoled yourself for the loss of two thousand scudi?” asked Bernard, addressing himself to the American, as they sat on a balcony in their Sorrento hotel, looking out upon the moonlit waters of the famous sea.
“Yes,” answered Mr. Sanderson. “Now that the three rascals who captured us and nearly put us to death have met the same fate themselves, I don’t make any account of the money. Thank Providence, I have plenty, left.”
“That’s the right way to look upon it,” said Walter Cunningham.
“I am the only one who has lost nothing,” said Bernard. “I have the best reason to be satisfied.” The three still remained together. They had been companions in misfortune, and this was a tie that still held them. Yet, truth to tell, neither Bernard nor his English friend enjoyed the society of the American, who was hardly congenial, and had some objectionable qualities.