“What on yearth is the meaning of it?” questioned Kenton.
Boone shook his head in doubt.
Lark’s face was as white as the face of the dead, excepting that part where the crimson scar traversed it.
Large drops of sweat stood upon the forehead of the senseless man, and he breathed heavily, as if in pain. The veins, too, of the forehead were swollen out like whipcords. All gave evidence of great agony.
“What shall we do?” asked Kenton, puzzled.
“First, get him out of this faint,” replied Boone.
“What do you suppose is the matter with him?”
“It looks like a fit,” Boone said, thoughtfully. “P’haps he’s seen that awful figure, and the spook cast a spell upon him.”
To the superstitious minds of the borderers this seemed a reasonable explanation.
“If I only had a little water now,” said Boone, looking around him as if in search of some friendly spring.