The hunters were astir at break of day and preparing for an early start. They cooked and ate a hasty breakfast and then carried their canoes down to the water.
The Indian whom the chief had assigned as their guide was already patiently waiting in his dugout.
It did not take the hunters long to stow away their few belongings and they were soon ready for their departure.
The chief followed them to the water accompanied by all his band.
The hunters parted with the young Seminole with genuine regret, and he, for his part, seemed greatly affected.
"The Little Tiger hopes that his white brothers will return again to the Glades," he said as he shook hands with each. "His wigwam will be always open to them. Will not he with the hair like the Spanish moss, consider again, and choose from among them one of the squaws to cheer his wigwam?"
"No, thank ye, chief," said the old sailor hastily, "it would only make the rest of 'em jealous."
The rest of the Indians gathered around and each shook hands with the little party, gravely saying "How," the only English many of them knew.
The hunters stepped aboard their canoes, and took up their paddles. The Indian guide in his dugout took the lead and with flashing blades the hunters followed closely in his wake.
As they passed the little island where the convicts had met their death, the hunters could not repress a shudder of horror. Around it lay the repulsive-looking crocodiles, placidly sleeping on the water, and amongst them floated a man's straw hat. It was all that remained of the cruel, merciless band.