In return there came to me, from that first experience, a measure of confidence in my assumed character that enabled me to impersonate my drunken priestly predecessor with a degree of cool perfection that surprised myself.
Faith, 't is always so; life is like the teetering-board of children, ever up or down.

Evidently the father in his night migrations had passed that way before, as the sentry--he appeared a burly fellow in the gloom,--after making certain as to the identity of his unsteady visitor, asked no unpleasant questions, merely contenting himself with gruff, good-natured warning to the _padre_ to be more careful this time and not fall down the ladder.
"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.