The party were just crossing a little glade, whereon the moonbeams brightly fell.
As the two turned to Lark, they noticed that his face was deadly pale—even whiter and more corpse-like than when he was stretched senseless upon the sward. His lips were moving convulsively.
“What’s the matter, Abe?” asked Boone, in alarm.
“I don’t know,” said Lark, in guttural tones, and speaking with evident difficulty.
Boone and Kenton exchanged glances of astonishment.
“Don’t you feel well?” Boone asked.
“No. I—I am deathly sick,” and, as the words came from his lips, Lark sunk heavily to the earth.
Alarmed, his two companions knelt by his side.
“Jerusalem! You’re tuck bad,” said Boone, bending over the fallen man.
“My strength is all leaving me,” murmured Lark, in anguish.