The two scouts looked upon the pain-distorted face of their companion in horror.
“What on yearth is the matter with you?” exclaimed Boone.
“Can’t you guess? Don’t you see it in my face?” Lark gasped, in torture. “I am going mad.”
“Mad!” cried both the scouts, and they recoiled a step or two in horror.
“Yes mad,” moaned Lark, in agony. “I can feel the madness creeping over me; tie me to a tree, else I may injure you or myself.”
“I’ll do it!” cried Boone, impulsively. “Come, Kenton, give me a hand!”
Then the two carried the helpless man to the foot of a stout oak that grew by the side of the clearing.
With thongs cut from Lark’s hunting-shirt they bound him securely to the tree. They placed him in an upright position against the trunk of the oak.
“There, can we do any thing else for you?” asked Boone, after the tying had been completed.
“No, except to remain near at hand and watch me. The attack will not last long,” Lark replied. It was with great difficulty that he spoke at all.