The blood came and went in his
cheeks, and he hung on my arm confused and embarrassed, looking on the
ground.
"I really owe you all manner of apologies--" he began.
"Not a bit of it, my dear boy," broke in Ghyrkins, "my niece was nearest
to you when you fell, and so she came up and did the right thing, like
the brave girl she is." The old fellow helped her to rise as he said
this, and he looked so pleased and proud of her that I was delighted
with him. "And now," he went on, "we must see how much you are hurt--the
deuce of a knock, you know, enough to kill you--and if you are not able
to ride, why, we will carry you home, you know; the devil of a way off
it is, too, confound it all." As he jerked out his sentences he was
feeling the back of Isaacs' head, to ascertain, if he could, how much
harm had been done. All this time the man who had done the mischief was
standing by, looking very penitent, and muttering sentences of apology
as he tried to perform any little office for his victim that came in his
way. Isaacs stretched out his arm, while Ghyrkins was feeling and
twisting his head, and taking the man's hand, held it a moment.
"My dear sir," he said, "I am not in the least hurt, I assure you, and
it was my fault for crossing you at such a moment. Please do not think
anything more about it.
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