_Figaro._ Why not, my Lord? _Count._ What! With a hurt in your ancle? _Figaro._ Oh! Is that all?--It pains me a little, to be sure; but that’s a trifle--Come Girls. _Count._ (_Turning him back_) You were very lucky to light upon such soft ground. _Figaro._ Exceedingly, my Lord:--Come Lasses. _Antonio._ (_Turning him back on the other side_) And then you double yourself up, when you take a leap? Yet, like a Cat, you fall on your feet. _Figaro._ What then?--Come Gir-- _Count._ But how unhappy the poor Youth will be about his Commission. _Figaro._ What is the meaning of all this, my Lord? _Antonio._ (_Bringing the Page forward_) Do you know this bashful young Lady? _Figaro._ The Devil! Hannibal!--(_Aside._) Well, and what Riddle has he to propound? _Count._ No Riddle, Sir, but a simple matter of fact:--He affirms, it was he who jump’d out of the window. _Figaro._ Does he?--Well, if he say so, I suppose it is so. _Count._ How! What two at a time? _Figaro._ Two? Twenty! Why not, my Lord? One sheep begins, and the rest naturally follow: (_Flourish of Music without_) Come, come, my merry Maidens, don’t you hear the music? Quick, quick, run, run, run. (_Exeunt Susan and Figaro, with the Girls._) _Count._ (_To the Page_) Harkee, little Rascal, begone, instantly; put off your Petticoats, and don’t stir out of your room the rest of the day.--Take care, Sir, I don’t meet you again. _Page._ (_Putting on his hat_) No matter--I bare away that upon my forehead, which would compensate for an age of imprisonment. (_Exit joyously_). _Count._ (_Looks at the Countess, who recollects the kiss she had just given the Page_) His forehead! What is it he bears away so triumphantly upon his forehead? _Countess._ (_Embarrassed_) A--His Officer’s hat, I suppose. Every new Bauble pleases a Child. (_Going._) _Count._ The Procession is coming, will not your Ladyship stay and be a witness of your Favourite’s happiness? _Countess._ As your Lordship pleases.