“Dean!” cried Mark, dropping on one knee. “Oh, don’t say you are hurt!”
The boy slowly rose to his knees, staring confusedly at his cousin, while the doctor dashed forward in company with Sir James to examine the boy’s injuries.
“Dean, my boy,” cried Sir James, “pray, pray speak!” And he caught at the boy’s arms.
Dean heard him and turned to look at him in a curious, half dazed way, but in spite of appeal after appeal he made no reply, but began to draw his handkerchief from his breast and to wipe his face, which was covered with blood and foam from the lion’s lips. Then giving a strange, half hysterical cry, he exclaimed, “Oh, uncle, it was horrid—horrid!”
“But where were you hurt?” cried Mark excitedly, adding half angrily, “Why don’t you speak?”
The boy looked at him wonderingly, as if too much confused to reply; then uttering a long-drawn sigh he said quietly, “Hurt? No, I don’t think so. I say, Mark, do go and fetch my boots.”
“Oh, Dean, my boy,” cried Sir James, half angrily, “you made us think you were half killed!”
“Did I, uncle?” said the boy quietly. “I couldn’t help it.”
“Help it, no,” cried Sir James. “And you, Mark, how dared you do such a rash thing?”
“I don’t know, father. I was horribly frightened all the time, but I felt I must; and,” he added quickly, “I say, I killed the lion—didn’t I, doctor?”