als of finishing his toilet, "there's no harm in it, and,
speaking as a man, it gives one a pleasant sociable feeling."

"I--have often wondered how it was done," confessed Miss Marty.
"It looks horribly dangerous."

"The fact is," said the Doctor, wiping his blade, "I cannot endure to
feel unshaven, even when campaigning."

He restored the razor to his haversack, blew out the spirit-lamp,
emptied the tin cup on the stones, packed up, resumed his shako, and
stood erect.

"My stocking, please!" Miss Marty pleaded.

"It is by no means dry yet," he answered, stooping and examining it.
"Let me help you down, that you may see for yourself."

"Oh, I _couldn't_!"

"Meaning your foot and ankle? Believe me you have no cause to be
ashamed of _them_, Miss Marty," the Doctor assured her gallantly,
climbing the slope and extending an arm for her to lean upon.

"Those people--across the water," she protested, with a slight blush
and a nod in the direction of the shouting, which for some minutes
had been growing louder.

"Our brave fellows--if, as I imagine, the uproar proceeds from them--
are pardonably flushed with their victory. They are certainly
incapable, at this distance, of the nice observation with which your
modesty credits them. Good Lord!--now you mention it--what a racket!
I sincerely trust they will not arouse Sir Felix, whose temper--
_experto crede_--is seldom at its best in the small hours. There, if
you will lean your weight on me and advance your foot--the uncovered
one--to this ledge--Nay, now!"

"But it hurts," said Miss Marty, wincing, with a catch of her breath.
"I fear I must have run a thorn into it."

"A thorn?" The Doctor seized the professional opportunity, lifted
her bodily off the slope, and lowered her to the beach. "There, now,
if you will sit absolutely still . . . for one minute. I command
you! Yes, as I suspected--a gorse-prickle!"

He ran to his haversack, and, returning with a pair of tweezers, took
the hurt foot between both hands.

"Pray remain still . . . for one moment. There--it is out!"
He held up the prickle triumphantly between the tweezers. "You have
heard, Miss Marty, of the slave Andrew Something-or-other and the
lion? Though it couldn't have been Andrew really, because there are
no lions in Scotland--except, I believe, on their shield. He was
hiding for some reason in a cave, and a lion came along, and--well,
it doesn't seem complimentary even if you turn a l