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