"Nothing pains me," said I.
"Your arm wasn't broken, major; but it 's terribly bruised and sprained."
"And my neck, Vesty—you are sure that was not broken?"
She sighed, but since I was bent, she followed my humor.
"Never fear," said this demure young woman; "that 's too proud ever to get a twist."
Here was a dilemma—that I should be developing into a wit and Vesty into a coquette!
"Well," said I, "I must try and straighten myself up again," and with that endeavor the pain did cut me so cruelly I fainted, quite without any maiden affectation, back again on to Vesty's arm.
"Try and think," said she, when I could hear her voice, "that I am some old woman, just trying to take care of you—somebody not disagreeable to you, and keep still till we get home."
"Very well," said I, tormenting myself with the thought that she was acting under some compelling sense of obligation; and that should never be.
So I answered briefly all at once; and no sooner had I spoken than I endured a gnawing consciousness that I was the hatefullest thing that had escaped extermination that night. I kept still, however; the pain was something to dread.