When Boone and Kenton reached the river’s side, Lark had just drawn a canoe from its hiding-place in the bushes that ringed the bank. The canoe was the same that the three had used before when they had crossed the stream.
Lark dragged the canoe to the river and launched the frail bark on the dark and sullen waters.
The two scouts, profiting by the delay, overtook Lark just as he gave the canoe to the embrace of the dark stream.
“Hallo, man! what on yearth has got into yer?” cried Boone.
For the first time, Lark turned and looked upon his pursuers.
One look the hardy bordermen took at the face of their companion, and then they felt that the warm life current in their veins was congealing with horror.
They looked not upon the face of a man, but rather on the face of a corpse, newly risen from its grave.
White as the stainless marble was the face of Lark, and his large eyes glared with demoniac fires.
Like men inspired with sudden fear, the stout-hearted borderers recoiled.
Then, to their amazement, Lark raised his hand and pointed to the canoe, that rocked and danced like a thing of life upon the turbid waters.