"Make yourself easy on that point, holy father; I shall watch over it as if it were my own. Hollo there forward, bear a hand aft," the captain cried.
Four sailors place themselves at the corners of the coffin, but they can hardly raise it from the deck; two more are called, and the six, bending under its weight, succeed in carrying it down into the cabin, followed by the Captain and by Father Antonio.
When the coffin was properly bestowed, the reverend father addressed Captain Perez in the most earnest and solemn manner:
"I hope you will be found worthy of the great confidence and trust I now repose in you. These precious remains should occupy your every moment, and you will sacredly and faithfully account to me for their safety—the smallest negligence will cost you dear. On your arrival at Cadiz, you will deliver the coffin to none other than Father Hieronimo, and not to him even, unless he shall first place in your hands a letter from me—you understand my instructions and commands? Now depart, and may God speed you on your way."
Father Antonio then came upon deck, and bestowed his benediction upon the vessel, and upon all it contained; after which, descending to the boat, he was rowed to the shore. As he placed himself at the head of the procession, the singing recommenced, the anchor was weighed, and, to the sound of music, the cheering of the people, and the roar of cannon, the vessel moved slowly on her destined voyage.
When fairly at sea, the wind was favorable, and all went well. The second evening out, Captain Perez was alone in his private cabin, and in a contemplative mood, when the feeble light of the single lamp glancing across the coffin, as the vessel rocked from side to side, attracted his attention, and led him to think about the singularity of its great weight.
"It is very strange," he said musingly, "six stout fellows to carry a man's dry bones!—it cannot be possible. But what does the coffin contain if it does not contain the saint's bones? Father Antonio was very, very particular. I should really like to know what there is in the coffin. It took a good half dozen strong healthy negroes, and then as many sailors, to carry it: what can there be in the coffin? Why, after all, I can know if I please. I have but to take out a few screws, it can be done without the slightest noise, and I am alone, and the cabin door is easily fastened."
Suiting the action to his soliloquy, he bolted the door of the cabin, took from his tool-chest a screw-driver, and, after a moment's indecision, began cautiously to loosen one of the screws in the lid of the coffin, his hands all the while trembling violently.
"If," thought he, "I am committing a heinous sin, if the saint should start up, and if, in his anger, he should in some appalling manner punish my sacrilegious meddling with his bones?"
A cold sweat overspread his bronzed visage, and he stood still a moment, hesitating as to whether he should go on. But curiosity conquered, and he rallied his energies with the reflection, that if he opened the coffin, Saint Escarpacio himself well knew it was only to find out what made his bones so heavy; there could be no impiety in that—quite the contrary. His conscience was by this time somewhat fortified, his superstitious fears gradually grew fainter, and keeping his eyes steadily fixed upon the lid of the coffin—to be sure the saint did not stir—he slowly and silently took out the first screw. He then stopped short: the saint showed no signs of anger.