"Why," exclaimed Andy, "the sheep have broken out of their pasture!
"Yes," replied his father. "They managed to find their way into the house, though how I cannot imagine. Something must have frightened them and there was a mad stampede. This poor brute contrived to get his head jammed in the chair, and in his struggles he broke his neck. We've had a rare fright, but, after all, there's nothing of consequence that cannot be set right."
"Hadn't we better get Quexo ashore before it gets dark?"
"Certainly, and Blight as well. I think the best place we can put him is in the small store. He'll be all right for one night, though I'm sorry to keep him bound."
"The treacherous reptile deserves no consideration."
"My dear Andy, we are not Nicaraguan revolutionaries. So long as he remains our prisoner we ought to treat him with the same amount of consideration that any other British criminal receives while awaiting trial. To-morrow we must find a place better suited for his reception."
"There's the farthermost cave, the one beyond those where we've stowed the dynamite," observed Andy. "There's not much in it at present; we can build a partition over the opening and make a door."
"Yes, it will be far more comfortable than his quarters in Ni Atong. We'll make a start to-morrow."
Accordingly Mr. McKay and his son put off in the dinghy—which, by the way, was the larger though more awkwardly-shaped part of the San Martin's gig—and transferred Quexo to the shore. The poor fellow was in a bad state, though his wound showed no signs of complications. Ellerton had had his hurts attended to as soon as the house was set in order. Beyond the inflammation caused by the searing-iron, his wound gave no reason for undue anxiety.
"Now then, out you come," ordered Mr. McKay sternly, as Andy and he, armed in case of emergency, returned to the yawl.