Although nothing more serious was shed than some liquor, the expedition was a success, and when they returned the orgies were begun. As there was little fear of a surprise, the sentinels were called in to participate, for no stranger could scale the precipice, unless in broad daylight, without giving the alarm, and the rear entrance was securely closed. All joined in the revelry, even the women and padre Gayferos, who proved himself a veteran in the art of wine-bibbing; excelling even among the many experts that were there.
But among them all, there was not one more uproarious, or who filled his cup oftener, than Garote Ventura. As padre Gayferos trilled out the last words of a love song, he suddenly started and glanced around the group. Then pointing to a low, squat-built man, he roared out in a voice that was not entirely free from hiccoughs.
“Andrez, thou drunken rascal, come hither!”
“Drunken, by the Virgin! ’Tis pleasure to hear the kettle call the pot black,” muttered the fellow, as he arose to his feet, and using his arms as balancing poles, staggered toward the monk.
“Eh! what’s that you say?” demanded the monk, a little sharply, as his ear caught the words, although he did not fully comprehend them.
“I only wish the blessed Virgin would remove this killing pain in my back, father,” stammered the Jarocho. “See; I can not stand upright, and it twinges so that I nearly fall down from pain.”
“Abjure the cup, my son, and it will leave you. Oh, if you could only see yourself now, as I see you, you would feel how disgraceful is drunkenness. Andrez—Andrez, take pattern after me, and you will be a better man,” reprovingly quoth the padre, shaking his head, and looking as solemn as an owl.
“I will, holy father, I will. If I ever get less sober than you are now, may the devil carry me off, as he did old Ventura,” said the fellow, assaying a facetious wink, but which only had the effect of further distorting his naturally ugly visage. “But your will, father, your will?”
“Yes, my thoughts wandered. I was reflecting upon the sinfulness of poor human nature,” and as he murmured, he poured a pint of wine down the cavity that represented his mouth. “You know where the prisoner is, good Andrez? Yes. Well, my heart is softened at the sight of our innocent pleasures, and I wish you to take him this bottle of wine, to drink our healths in. Poor devil, ’tis a long time since he tasted as good. Do you hear?”
“Yes, your excellency; but don’t you think—hadn’t I, that is—”