Prisoners of Chance

"Holy saints!" he added soothingly, "your worship's head must be ringing yet with the blow it got."

To this uncharitable remark I maintained dignified silence, and, flinging my somewhat uncertain limbs over the coamings, went scrambling down, leaving him to his solitary meditations.

There was no light burning in the big square room below, merely a faint yellow reflection stealing forth from that passageway leading aft. For this blessing of Providence I was profoundly thankful. A good half-dozen of the night guard, wearing similar uniform with those I had met on duty during the afternoon, were idly lounging about the butt of the mainmast, evidently awaiting turn on sentry post, and ready enough to welcome any diversion chancing their way which would help to break the dull tedium of the night. I observed likewise, as I made a drunken pause at the foot of the ladder in an apparently vain endeavor to steady myself, that these roisterers of the night-watch were a set of jolly dogs, and had been opening numerous bottles of red wine with which to pass lagging hours more pleasantly. They were already in that gay, thoughtless spirit of badinage which comes of fair allowance. Good humor had laid careless hand on duty, until, the stern restraint of discipline noticeably relaxing, good fellowship had become king. Their officer lay outstretched at full length upon three camp stools, a fellow long of limb, with face as dark as a Moor. He made no effort to arise from his undignified position, yet hailed me as though I had been a boon companion of his revel.

"Ha!" he exclaimed gleefully, tapping as he spoke an empty glass against the deck. "Comrades, 't is as I prophesied; we are not long robbed of the Church. See, the most reverend Father hath already returned unto his own. Truly art thou welcome, padre, for I fear thy flock were about to go astray without a shepherd. Ho, Alva! seest thou not the coming of thine own liege lord? or art thou already so blinded by good liquor thou would'st dare neglect the very Pope himself, did he honor us with his company? Alva, I say, you roistering hound, you drunken blade, bring hither a stool for the worthy confessor! Faith! doth he not bear the sins of us all, and must he not be greatly aweary with so vast a load. Saint Theresa! 't is fortunate there is yet a bottle left uncracked for the good padre!" I gathered the heavy hood closer about my face, so as better to muffle voice as well as conceal features; made an apparent effort to stand firm, but with such poor success I noticed the grins expand on the faces watching me.