No look of triumph appeared upon Lark’s face as he felt that his hands were free—only the look of fierce, settled determination.
Again he glanced around the little opening as if in search of watchers; then he proceeded to untie the lashings that bound his feet to the tree.
In a few minutes the thongs dropped to the ground, and Lark was at liberty.
He stepped from the side of the oak and drew himself up proudly to the moonbeams, as if rejoicing that he was free. All traces of his former feebleness had disappeared.
The two scouts watched his movements with anxiety.
Lark, pausing in the center of the little opening, fumbled for a moment at his girdle.
“He’s looking for a we’pon,” said Boone, in a whisper.
“Yes, it looks like it,” replied Kenton.
Then from his girdle Lark drew a keen-edged scalping-knife. He tried the edge of the blade and the point, carefully, upon his finger; then, with a grim smile of satisfaction, he replaced the knife in his girdle.
Slowly, with cautious steps, Lark stole across the glade, but on the borders of the wood he halted—paused for a moment, irresolute, and then his strength seemed to fail him. A deep groan of anguish came from his lips.