These were solemnly borne down to be buried far in the forest shade where no foe would ever find them. The wounded were helped along.
They could find no trace of Kep, except the awful grid on which he was to have been roasted. This they smashed to pieces, the king's castle was fired, then slowly and sadly the long march back was commenced.
The guide took them a nearer way now. There was little danger from enemies and nothing else to be feared.
McTavish took the very greatest care of his wounded, and on their account solely he would not permit the march homewards to be hurried. The worst cases were carried on litters.
There would have been plenty of time even to collect specimens. But somehow the honest Scot, whose heart was the quintessence of kindness, never once left camp for that purpose.
He had become strangely attached to Kep. He was certainly a lovable lad, and besides there was still the mystery about him which had not yet been cleared up. Indeed, McTavish knowing that any reference thereto appeared to hurt the boy's feelings, refrained from making any attempt to do so.
When they had reached a spot within about ten miles of the beach shortly before sunset one evening, a halt was called for the night, and the guide, who appeared to know nothing of fatigue, was started on ahead to announce the tidings of their arrival. He was to remain on board as the rest of the track was familiar enough to both McTavish and Jack Stormalong.
All hands were glad of a good night's rest. The wounded were doing well, and the very worst cases could now walk.
So after breakfast next day, all hands feeling happier now at heart, the journey was resumed beachwards.
McTavish, trudging sturdily ahead of the troop, had just issued from the forest and sighted the Breezy.