As the rain fell the fog thickened, so that, standing close in to shore, the skipper slackened our speed, till at last we barely moved through the water. Not aware of the reason, I asked one of the sailors for an explanation.
“It's the dirty weather, I reckon,” said he, sulky at being questioned.
“Impatient, I suppose, to get the journey over, my young friend?” said a low, silky voice, which at once reminded me of that I had already heard when I lay in the boat. I turned, and it was the Padre, who, with an umbrella over him, was standing beside me.
“I 'm not much of a sailor, Father,” replied I, saluting him respectfully as I spoke.
“More accustomed to the saddle than the poop-deck?” said he, smiling blandly.
I nodded assent, and he went on with some passing generalities about sea and land life,—mere skirmishing, as I saw, to invite conversation.
Partly weariness, partly a sense of discomfort at the persecution of this man's presence, made me sigh heavily. I had not perceived it myself, but he remarked it immediately, and said,—
“You are depressed in spirit, my son; something is weighing on your heart!”
I looked up at him, and, guided possibly by my suspicion of his real character, I saw, or thought I saw, a twinkling glitter of his dark eye, as though he was approaching the theme on which he was bent.
“Yes, Father,” replied I, with a voice of well-feigned emotion, “my heart is indeed heavy; but”—here I assumed a more daring tone—“I must not despond, for all that!”