"You're thinner, Harry," said Redfern at length.
"You're not looking very fit yourself," answered Beresford. "Had a shake, old man?"
"Rotten! You're quite sound, eh?"
"Yes, thank God! There's a heap to tell you. What were you doing on the hill?"
"Camping for the night. We've done fifty miles since morning. Were coming on to-morrow. Glad we're too late, old chump!"
Presently, when all had cooled down, they fell to talking practically. It was near sunset, and they decided that Forrester and his party should mount the hill and share the planters' tents for the night, the mingled mass of Orientals camping at the foot.
An hour later, gathered about the camp fire, the band of bronzed and stalwart young Englishmen listened raptly to the story told by Beresford. He related all the incidents of the weeks since Redfern was parted from him by the iron shutter. The silence of the audience was broken now and again by ejaculations of horror, rage, sheer amazement. When Beresford had finished, there were cries for Forrester, Mackenzie, Jackson in turn. Each added some detail of his own experience.
"And the villainous Old Man?" cried one.
"We left him standing like an ivory statue on his platform, surveying the wreck of his little empire," said Beresford.
"And the Eye--what became of it?" asked another.