ON THE DECK OF THE “SANTA MARIA”

The Spanish sentries on the Place d’Armes were calling the hour of midnight when the priest and I stole silently past amid the shadows of overhanging trees.  I find it impossible, even now, after the lapse of years, to dwell upon my parting with her who despatched me on so strange an errand.  My reluctant pen halts, while the tears, dimming my old eyes, bid me turn to other scenes.  However, under God, the venture of that night might terminate, I firmly believed I was gazing into her dear face for the last time; yet, honor sealed my lips, holding back unspoken those passionate utterances which burned upon my tongue.  I could merely clasp for one brief moment those hands she gave so unreservedly into my keeping, gaze into the unfathomed depths of her dark eyes, and murmur a few broken words of confidence and farewell.  Then, half blinded from emotion, I tore myself away from her beloved presence, and went forth into night and peril for her dear sake.

However my heart throbbed with hidden anguish as I stepped forth from that fateful house, the nature of the adventure upon which we were now fairly launched was sufficient to cool my brain, so that long before we skirted the guard-lines drawn around the camp of Spanish artillery, I had become once more the cool, resourceful adventurer, as befitted my nature and training.

“Sentries are stationed only along the open side of the square, I think?” I whispered to my companion questioningly, striving vainly to penetrate the intense darkness in our front.

“True,” he responded in so low a voice I could scarcely catch the words, a slight falter betraying that the strange conditions preyed upon his unaccustomed nerves.  “It was thus they were posted last night.”

“Then we will assume the risk of finding clear passage.  Keep close, and venture no speech, whatever happens.”

It proved slow work at the best, as it would never do to have a Spanish spy dogging our footsteps.  I doubt not it tested good Father Petreni to the uttermost, yet I thought the better of him for the determined way in which he clung to my heels through the darkness.  As for myself, such dodging, twisting, climbing of walls, and skulking amid shadows, merely sufficed to warm the blood, and yielded greater zest for the more serious work to follow.  I claim small credit for courage in such matters; they have ever been so much a portion of life to me that their excitement became scarcely more than a draught of heady wine.  He was the truly brave man who, without any such incentive as I possessed, left his books and quiet cell that night to follow me abroad.

At last we ran across the great deserted market-place, and paused, crouching breathlessly in the dense shadows of the huge warehouse standing upon the very brink of the broad river.  As we rested thus we could hear soft lapping of running water along the further wall, while occasionally some vagrant puff of air brought to our strained ears the distant creaking of chains, as the great war-vessels swung by their cables against the swift current.  Beyond this the night was intensely still, black, unfathomable, mysterious.  It seemed fairly to weigh down upon us with its noiseless burden of gloom.