Richard got out his
knife, and by dint of scratching his hands in a dozen places, succeeded
in gathering quite a cluster. Then he went to work at getting rid of the
thorns.
"You may like things prickly, but you'll be willing to spare a few of
these," he observed.
He succeeded in time in pruning the cluster into subordination, bound
them with a tough bit of dried weed which he found at his feet, and held
out the bunch. "Will you do me the honour of wearing them?"
She thrust the smooth stems into the breast of her riding-coat, where
they gave the last picturesque touch to her attire. "Thank you," she
acknowledged somewhat tardily. "I can do no less after seeing you
scarify yourself in my service. You might have put on your gloves."
"I might--and suffered your scarifying mirth, which would have been much
worse. 'He jests at scars that never felt a wound,' but he who jests at
them after he has felt them is the hero. Observe that I still jest." He
put his lips to a bleeding tear on his wrist as he spoke. "My only
regret is that the rose haws were not where they are now when I
photographed the horses. Only, mine is not a colour camera.
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