The lady principal shrieked, the lady teachers performed a trio of witch-screams—the most discordant ever uttered—and my Lady Blunt would have plashed down into the puddle, only, seeing how wet it was, she only reeled and clung to me, who felt ready to drop myself, as I leaned against the wall half swooning.
Alarmed by the shrieks, Achille came running out, looking, as I thought, very pale.
“Ladies, ladies!” he ejaculated, “ma foi, qu’est ce que c’est?”
“Help, help! Monsieur Achille,” gasped Mrs Blunt.
He hurried forward, and relieved me of my load.
“Fetch the police,” cried Miss Furness.
“Nein, nein—it is a mistake,” whispered the Fraülein, who had a penchant, I think, for the poor Signor.
“Signor Pazzoletto, it is thou!” exclaimed Achille, with an aspect of the most profound amazement as he caught sight of his unfortunate friend—an aspect which was, indeed, truthful.
For, as he afterwards told me, he had been so drenched in the cistern, and taken up with making his own escape, that he had thought no more of the poor Signor; while, being a wet morning, he had not sought his lodging—which was some distance from the town—before coming, though he was somewhat anxious to consult him upon the previous night’s alarm, and hardly dared to show himself. So—