He remained, then, standing by the door, on the outside of which the measured footsteps of the guard were still heard. The time passed away, and the sentinel still walked the passage. The watch was nearly expired and he was there still.
“All is lost,” Lorenzo said to himself, and then he drew up his cloak around him in that resolute manner that indicates the determination which, from its extremeness, becomes the kindred of despair; as he drew his cloak around him, something fell from it: it was the letter which he had written. He felt about for it in the dark until it was found. It seemed to revive the feelings which had begun to slumber under the absorbing solicitude for his own safety.
“Shall I have put myself in danger and still not succeed in sending this?” thought he, “what advantage do we derive from all our acquirements, our high and glorious reputations, our friendships, our exposures, and our perils?”—he hastily reasoned—“if we are driven by the necessity of preserving these to sacrifice the happiness which we fondly hope to realize from them? away vain and timid thoughts—I will hazard everything; but, happen what may, I shall send this.”
Having come to this resolution, Lorenzo waited until the sentinel had arrived at the head of the passage, and had, on his return to his niche, passed the door of the cabin in which he was concealed: he then opened it softly, and stepped into the passage: and, gathering himself up closely under its side, began to retire with as much caution as he had come in. He kept his eyes all the while fixed on the sentinel or his shadow, so that he might easily anticipate his movements, in case he was discovered.
He had reached the top of the large passage, and was about to take the one which led to his own apartments, when the footsteps ceased, and the man drew himself up as before in his niche. It was evident that whatever suspicions he may have entertained at first had now entirely vanished, and that the greater part of the continued walk which he took, was intended more for his own recreation than for the interception of any one who he might have suspected was trespassing on the circle of his guard, for he seemed to be entirely given up to his own reflections. Lorenzo stopped when he saw this; he mused for a moment, but his resolution was not long in being taken. He bent himself on his knees and hands, and crept down the passage again; he stopped several times to study the movements of the sentinel, all which times he seemed to be the more assured of his safety; he crept in this manner until he reached a certain door, and was now but a few yards from the man on duty. The latter seemed still absorbed in his own thoughts; Lorenzo drew the letter from his breast, and pushed it under the door. As he supported himself on one hand, in doing so, the vessel lurched, and the hand holding the letter struck against the door. The sentinel raised his head for a moment, but, concluding that it was the inmate of the cabin who had struck by accident against the partition, he relapsed into his meditative state.
Lorenzo drew himself carefully back in the same manner as he had gone forwards. When he got to the head of the passage, he jumped on his feet and hastened to his own cabin.
He had scarcely shut the door, when he heard the heavy footsteps of the officer, who had now been relieved, on the companion stairs as he descended to his cabin.
CHAPTER X.
“One half of me is yours, the other half yours—