“Here’s a pretty kettle of fish!” cried the queer man. “You’ve sprained your ankle.”
As he spoke he set Maggie on the ground beside him very gently, and diving into the folds of his habit produced a large handkerchief, which he proceeded to tear into strips. Then, very gently and deftly, he bandaged up the poor swollen foot. By this time Maggie’s blue eyes were wide open, and as he stooped over her foot she found time to wonder why he wore such “a wee, wee roond cappie” on the back of his head. The pain was bad, but she tried hard not to flinch, and when it was all done and the bandage fastened with a little pebble brooch that she had worn at her neck, he said gaily:
“And now to carry you home, for that foot must have hot fomentations as soon as possible.”
Here, however, Maggie demurred. “I can walk fine,” she announced with great dignity, and tried; but it was no use—she couldn’t even stand, the pain was so bad.
So the “papist man” picked her up in his arms and set off toward the village.
Now, Maggie was just a little anxious at this, for she had wandered a good way into the park, and the path he took seemed quite unfamiliar.
With unprecedented courage she took hold of his chin with her hand and turned his face that she could see it.
“You’re sure you’re no takin’ me to your convent?” she asked gravely, as one who begs to know the worst at once. She still had fleeting visions of a dungeon followed by stake and faggots if she proved leal to the faith of her fathers.
“My dear child, they wouldn’t have you there. We don’t allow any women to come in—not even little girls—where I live.”
Maggie was silent for a minute; then, because every Scotsman, woman, or child loves an argument, and a theological argument best of all, she said slowly: