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He reached Pescate; travelled along the Adda, giving a melancholy

glance at Pescarenico; passed the bridge, and crossed the fields,

to the house of his friend, who, just risen, was at the door,

looking out upon the weather. He beheld the strange figure,

covered with mud, and wet to the skin, and yet, so joyous and

animated! in his life he had never seen a man, so accoutred,

appear so satisfied with himself.

"How!" said he, "already here! and in such weather! How have

things gone with you?"

"She is there! she is there! she is there!"

"Well and safe?"

"Convalescent, which is better! I have wonderful things to tell

you."

"But what a state you are in!"

"A pretty pickle indeed!"

"In truth you might squeeze water enough from your upper half to

wash away the mud from the lower. But wait a moment; I will make

a fire."