For there, not a foot to her right, and above the crest of the partition wall, rose another telescope, the exact counterpart of her own!

The Spectre on the Brocken was nothing to this.

She clutched at the rotten stones and panted for breath.  Slowly, very slowly, the rival telescope was tilted up against the harbour-wall; very slowly it rose in air.  Then came a pair of hands—­of blue cuffs—­and then—­the crimson face of Admiral Buzza soared into view, like the child’s head in Macbeth.

He did not see her yet, being absorbed in adjusting the telescope.  Terror-smitten, too fearful to advance or retreat, clinging to the telescope with one hand as a drowning mariner might grasp a spar, and clutching with the other at the crumbling wall, Miss Limpenny stood arrested, wildly staring, scarce venturing to breathe.

The Admiral’s telescope was tilted into position, and the Admiral half-turned his head before applying his eye to the hole.

She could not help it.  In spite of all her efforts to repress it, a little gasping squeal of affright broke from her.  The Admiral, with a start, withdrew his eye quickly from the glass, and looked over the wall.

“Damnation!” (This was the Admiral, by the way.)

What happened exactly at this moment will never be known.  Whether a stone underfoot gave way, or whether the Admiral’s voice brought down a serac of rotten wall, is not clear.  There was a rumbling sound, an oath or two—­and then both telescope and Admiral disappeared, with a crash, from view.

Miss Limpenny screamed, dropped her telescope, which went rattling down the steps, cowered desperately against the wall, shut her eyes, screamed again, trod on a tilting slab, hung for a moment, toppled, clutched wildly at space, and shot, with a rush and shower of stones, straight to the very bottom.

Miss Lavinia Limpenny, who, startled by the screams, had rushed to the window and witnessed the last stages of the catastrophe, was out in a minute.  Tenderly raising her sobbing sister, she assisted her back to the house, and attended to the bruises with a combination of arnica, vinegar, and brown paper.  On the other side of the wall the Admiral lay for some time and bellowed for help, until his frightened family bore him in, and attempted to put him to bed.

But mark the heroism of the truly great.  In spite of his late treatment at the hands of his fellow-citizens—­treatment which still rankled—­here was no Coriolanus to depart in a huff to Antium.  The Admiral had a duty to perform, a service due to this ungrateful Town, and on the subject of going to bed he was adamant.

“Cease, Emily.  Your tears, your protestations are in vain.  Stop, I tell you!  Get me my uniform.”

Surely some desperate, some decisive step was contemplated when the Admiral ordered out that gold-laced coat and cocked hat that once had shone in the Blue Squadron of Her Majesty’s Navy.  What could this stern magnificence portend?