“Well, brave man!” said the doctor; “wounded?”
“Ah, she can be brave eneuch when there’s ony occasion, sir,” said Andrew. “But she never war grand at fechting bear, and she thocht she’d get oot o’ the way o’ the shooting.”
“And you did,” said the captain contemptuously. “There, go and fetch that piece you threw away.”
“Nay, it slippit oot o’ my fingers, sir. It was after she’d fired it, though.”
“The least said the soonest mended, McByle,” said the captain coldly. “You had better hold your tongue, and go and find that rifle. I may as well tell you, though, that my opinion of your bravery is not very high.”
“Nay, sir, dinna be hard upon a puir mon. Ye dinna ken a’ aboot me the yet.”
“I know enough. Don’t talk, man; go and find the rifle, and then come and help the skinning here.”
“She will, sir; but, doctor, is her leg brukkit?”
“Eh? Bah! no. A bit sprained at the ankle joint. When you fell, I suppose?”
“Ay, sir. Ye see she had to try so hard to save her head, she couldna attend to her legs and feet,” said Andrew, with a cunning look at the doctor, as he limped off in search of the rifle, leaving the rest examining the magnificent animal lying motionless among the stones.