"Is it my father?" she asked tremblingly. "Sir
Philip--"
"No, no!" answered Lorimer reassuringly. "It is nothing serious, really,
upon my honor! Your father's all right,--so is Phil,--our lively friend
Pierre is the victim. The fact is, we've had some trouble with Sigurd. I
can't think what has come to the boy! He was as amiable as possible when
we started, but after we had climbed about half-way up the mountain, he
took it into his head to throw stones about rather recklessly. It was
only fun, he said. Your father tried to make him leave off, but he was
obstinate. At last, in a particularly bright access of playfulness, he
got hold of a large flint, and nearly put Phil's eye out with it,--Phil
dodged it, and it flew straight at Duprez, splitting open his cheek in
rather an unbecoming fashion--Don't look so horrified, Miss Gueldmar,--it
is really nothing!"
"Oh, but indeed it is something!" she said, with true womanly anxiety in
her voice. "Poor fellow! I am so sorry! Is he much hurt? Does he
suffer?"
"Pierre? Oh, no, not a bit of it! He's as jolly as possible! We bandaged
him up in a very artistic fashion; he looks quite interesting, I assure
you.
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