We had taken next to no wine, a pint of Madeira apiece during
dinner, and six bottles of claret between us afterwards, so I went to
bed as cool as a cucumber, and slept soundly for several hours, until
awakened by my old gander--now do be quiet, Cringle--by my old watchman
of a gander, cackling like a hero. I struck my repeater--half past one
so I turned myself, and was once more falling over into the arms of
Morpheus, when I thought I saw some dark object flit silently across the
open window that looks into the piazza, between me and the deep blue and
as yet moonless sky. This somewhat startled me, but it might have been
one of the servants. Still I got up and looked out, but I could see
nothing. It did certainly strike me once or twice, that there was some
dark object cowering in the deep gloom caused by the shade of the orange
tree at the end of the piazza, but I persuaded myself it was fancy, and
once more slipped into my nest. However, the circumstance had put sleep
to flight. Half an hour might have passed, and the deep dark purity of
the eastern sky was rapidly quickening into a greenish azure, the
forerunner of the rising moon," ("oh, confound your poetry," said
Rubiochico,) "which was fast swamping the sparkling stars, like a bright
river flowing over diamonds, when the old gander again set up his
gabblement and trumpeted more loudly than before. 'If you were not so
tough, my noisy old cock'--thought I--'next Michaelmas should be your
last.
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