Early that afternoon old Mazey had taken the slippers to the village
cobbler to get them repaired on the spot, before his master called for
them the next morning; he sat superintending the progress and completion
of the work until evening came, when he and the cobbler betook
themselves to the village inn to drink each other's healths at parting.
They had prolonged this social ceremony till far into the night, and
they had parted, as a necessary consequence, in a finished and perfect
state of intoxication on either side.
If the drinking-bout had led to no other result than those night
wanderings in the grounds of St. Crux, which had shown old Mazey
the light in the east windows, his memory would unquestionably have
presented it to him the next morning in the aspect of one of the
praiseworthy achievements of his life. But another consequence had
sprung from it, which the old sailor now saw dimly, through the
interposing bewilderment left in his brain by the drink. He had
committed a breach of discipline, and a breach of trust. In plainer
words, he had deserted his post.
The one safeguard against Admiral Bartram's constitutional tendency to
somnambulism was the watch and ward which his faithful old servant kept
outside his door.
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