No entreaties had ever prevailed on him to submit to
the usual precaution taken in such cases. He peremptorily declined to
be locked into his room; he even ignored his own liability, whenever
a dream disturbed him, to walk in his sleep. Over and over again,
old Mazey had been roused by the admiral's attempts to push past the
truckle-bed, or to step over it, in his sleep; and over and over again,
when the veteran had reported the fact the next morning, his master had
declined to believe him. As the old sailor now stood, staring in vacant
inquiry at the bed-chamber door, these incidents of the past rose
confusedly on his memory, and forced on him the serious question whether
the admiral had left his room during the earlier hours of the night. If
by any mischance the sleep-walking fit had seized him, the slippers in
old Mazey's hand pointed straight to the conclusion that followed--his
master must have passed barefoot in the cold night over the stone stairs
and passages of St. Crux. "Lord send he's been quiet!" muttered
old Mazey, daunted, bold as he was and drunk as he was, by the bare
contemplation of that prospect. "If his honor's been walking to-night,
it will be the death of him!"
He roused himself for the moment by main force--strong in his dog-like
fidelity to the admiral, though strong in nothing else--and fought off
the stupor of the drink.
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