Good heavens!  That back—­that voice—­surely I knew them!

The man turned, holding the cabbage aloft and calling gods, mortals, and especially the population of Genoa, to witness.  It was Mr. Pett!—­and, catching sight of me, he stared wildly, almost dropping the vegetable.

“Angels and ministers—­” here, at a quick sign of warning from me, he checked himself sharply. “O anima profetica, il mio zio! . . .  Devil a doubt but it sounds better in Shakespeare’s mother-English,” he added, as I hurried him aside; and then—­for he still grasped the cabbage, and the stallwoman was shouting after him for a thief.  “You’ll excuse me, signora.  Two soldi, I think you said?  It is an infamy.  What?  Your cabbage has a good heart?  Ah, but has it ever loved?  Has it ever leapt in transport, recognizing a long-lost friend?  Importunate woman, take your fee, basely extracted from me in a moment of weakness.  O, heel of Achilles!  O, locks of Samson!  Go to, Delilah, and henceforth for this may a murrain light on thy cucumbers!

“Though, strictly speaking,” said Mr. Fett, as I drew him away and down the street leading to the quay, “I believe murrain to be a disease peculiar to cattle.  Well, my friend, and how goes it with you?  For me”—­here he tapped his basket, in which the cabbage crowned a pile of green-stuff—­“I am reduced to buying my salads.”  He wheeled about, following my glance, and saluted the Princess, who had followed and overtaken us.

“Man,” said I, “you shall tell us your story as soon as ever you have helped us to a safe lodging.  But here are we—­and there, coming towards us along the quay, are two comrades—­four Corsicans in all, whose lives, if the Genoese detect us, are not worth five minutes’ purchase.”

“Then, excuse me,” said Mr. Fett, becoming serious of a sudden, “but isn’t it a damned foolish business that brings you?”

“It may be,” I answered.  “But the point is, Can you help us?”

“To a lodging?  Why, certainly, as luck has it, I can take you straight—­no, not straight exactly, but the devil of a way round—­to one where you can lie as snug as fleas in a blanket.  Oh—­er—­but excuse me—­” He checked himself and stood rubbing his chin, with a dubious glance at the Princess.

“Indeed, sir,” she put in, smoothing down at her peasant-skirt, “I think you first found me lodging upon a bare rock, and even in this new dress it hardly becomes me to be more fastidious.”

“I was thinking less of the lodgings, Princess, than of the company:  though, to be sure, the girls are very good-hearted, and Donna Julia, our prima amorosa, makes a most discreet duenna, off the boards.  There is Badcock too—­il signore Badcocchio:  give Badcock a hint, and he will diffuse a most permeating respectability.  For the young ladies who dwell at the entrance of the court, over the archway, I won’t answer.  My acquaintance with them has not passed beyond an interchange of winks:  but we might send Badcock to expostulate with them.”