The journey “home,” as the good yacht was always called, was commenced the very next morning, and accomplished in eight-and-forty hours.
A red deer fell to Allan’s gun by the way.
“I do believe,” said Allan, “it is the self-same rascal that led me such a dance.”
“We’ll have a haunch off him, then,” said McBain, “to roast when we go back, and so celebrate your return.”
“The chief’s return,” said Ralph, laughing.
“The prodigal son’s bedad,” said Rory; “but I’m going to have that stag’s head. Isn’t he a lordly fellow, with his kingly antlers! I’ll stuff it, an oh! sure, if we ever do get back to Arrandoon, it’s myself will hang it in the hall in commemoration of the great wild-goose chase.”
By means of their compasses and trapper Seth’s skill they were able to march in almost a bee-line upon what they termed their own ravine. But not during any portion of the journey was Seth idle. He was scanning every yard of the ground around him, studying every feature of the landscape, and making so many strange marks upon the trees, that at last Rory asked him,—
“Whatever are you about, friend Seth? Is it a button off your coat you’ve lost, or what is the meaning of your strange earnestness?”
Seth smiled grimly.
“I guess,” he replied, “we may have to make tracks across this bit of country once or twice after the snow is on the ground. Shouldn’t like to be lost, should you?”