Then again Lark, whose eyes had wandered off listlessly in the forest, looked into the face of the man who bent so earnestly over him.
A gleam of recognition came over Lark’s features. Feebly he raised his hand to his head and passed it across his forehead, as if by the act to call back his scattered senses.
“Kurnel Boone,” he murmured.
“Yours to command,” replied Boone, with a hearty press of Lark’s hand that lay by his side.
“And Kenton, too,” Lark continued.
“Right to an iota,” returned the borderer.
“What on yearth has been the matter with me?” and Lark, with the assistance of Boone, rose to a sitting posture as he spoke.
“That is what bothers us,” Boone said. “We have been waiting for you to come for some time, as agreed upon; and at last, growing tired of waiting, we concluded either that you had been taken prisoner by the Shawnees, or else that you had returned to the station, having missed us in the forest in some way.”
A puzzled look appeared upon Lark’s face.
“I can’t understand it,” he muttered, in doubt.