"Paul! You are hurt! Harry, a bandage—quick; your shirt—anything!"
I looked down at the gash on my leg, which was bleeding somewhat freely.
"It's nothing," I declared; "a mere tear in the skin. But your ankle! I thought it was sprained?"
She had reached my side and bent over to examine my wound; but I raised her in my arms and held her before me.
"That," I said, "is nothing. Believe me, it isn't even painful. I shall bandage it myself; Harry will take my place here. But your foot?"
"That, too, is nothing," she answered with a half-smile. "I merely twisted it; it is nearly well already. See!"
She placed her weight on the injured foot, but could not suppress a faint grimace of pain.
Calling to Harry to watch the crevice, I took Desiree in my arms and carried her back to her seat.
"Now sit still," I commanded. "Soon we'll have dinner; in the mean time allow me to say that you are the bravest woman in the world, and the best sport. And some day we'll drink to that—from a bottle."
But facts have no respect for sentiment and fine speeches. The last words were taken from my very mouth by a ringing cry from Harry: