“Or,” suggested Wilbraham, “the Pied Piper.”
“Who was he?” Sylvia asked.
“Oh, he’s Browning,” Teresa answered promptly, “and Browning’s beyond me.” She observed, with added uneasiness, that Sylvia’s changed circumstances encouraged her to talk and ask more questions than usual.
Curiosity and laughter made them hasten up the hill, and turn into the street which had engulfed their friends. Nothing could be seen of the Maxwells, but two or three of the less lucky of the children were coming back slowly. Strangely for Assisi, where the past reigns, and its stones have set themselves down greyly and determinedly as the earth itself, a piece of wall had yielded so far to time that it was evidently held dangerous, and had been propped by one or two not very strong supports. The English people passed by it, Wilbraham last. He glanced up, and saw a quiver, an ominous bulge. The wall was falling, and underneath was a little creature of four or five years old, staring at him with large unheeding eyes! There was no time to snatch her away. Wilbraham was a very strong man, and he shouted, flung his weight against the falling stones, and for a moment held them back. Teresa turned, saw, rushed, caught at the child, dashed her into safety, would have run back once more, but it was too late; the whole mass was sliding and crumbling into a heap in the road, and Wilbraham, borne down with it, lay motionless.
Chapter Seven.
After the first shock of horror came relief, for Wilbraham was only momentarily stunned, got up, shook himself, and laughed at their anxious faces. Sylvia flew to his side, and was brushing the dust and rubble from his coat before her face had recovered its colour, or a question had been asked. At another time the others would have smiled at the helpless and incongruous action, but their smiles had been frightened out of them for a while, and Miss Sandiland was the first to find a voice.
“You must be hurt—somewhere!” she exclaimed.
Wilbraham laughed ruefully.