"Our brave fellows--if, as I imagine, the uproar proceeds from them--
are pardonably flushed with their victory. They are certainly
incapable, at this distance, of the nice observation with which your
modesty credits them. Good Lord!--now you mention it--what a racket!
I sincerely trust they will not arouse Sir Felix, whose temper--
_experto crede_--is seldom at its best in the small hours. There, if
you will lean your weight on me and advance your foot--the uncovered
one--to this ledge--Nay, now!"
"But it hurts," said Miss Marty, wincing, with a catch of her breath.
"I fear I must have run a thorn into it."
"A thorn?" The Doctor seized the professional opportunity, lifted
her bodily off the slope, and lowered her to the beach. "There, now,
if you will sit absolutely still . . . for one minute. I command
you! Yes, as I suspected--a gorse-prickle!"
He ran to his haversack, and, returning with a pair of tweezers, took
the hurt foot between both hands.
"Pray remain still . . . for one moment. There--it is out!"
He held up the prickle triumphantly between the tweezers. "You have
heard, Miss Marty, of the slave Andrew Something-or-other and the
lion? Though it couldn't have been Andrew really, because there are
no lions in Scotland--except, I believe, on their shield. He was
hiding for some reason in a cave, and a lion came along, and--well,
it doesn't seem complimentary even if you turn a lion into a lioness,
but it came into my head and seemed all right to start with.
Pages:
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130