Homo turned his head now and then, to make sure that Gwynplaine was behind him.

In some situations of supreme importance nothing approaches so near an omniscient intelligence as the simple instinct of a faithful animal.  An animal is a lucid somnambulist.

There are cases in which the dog feels that he should follow his master; others, in which he should precede him.  Then the animal takes the direction of sense.  His imperturbable scent is a confused power of vision in what is twilight to us.  He feels a vague obligation to become a guide.  Does he know that there is a dangerous pass, and that he can help his master to surmount it?  Probably not.  Perhaps he does.  In any case, some one knows it for him.  As we have already said, it often happens in life that some mighty help which we have held to have come from below has, in reality, come from above.  Who knows all the mysterious forms assumed by God?

What was this animal?  Providence.

Having reached the river, the wolf led down the narrow tongue of land which bordered the Thames.

Without noise or bark he pushed forward on his silent way.  Homo always followed his instinct and did his duty, but with the pensive reserve of an outlaw.

Some fifty paces more, and he stopped.  A wooden platform appeared on the right.  At the bottom of this platform, which was a kind of wharf on piles, a black mass could be made out, which was a tolerably large vessel.  On the deck of the vessel, near the prow, was a glimmer, like the last flicker of a night-light.

The wolf, having finally assured himself that Gwynplaine was there, bounded on to the wharf.  It was a long platform, floored and tarred, supported by a network of joists, and under which flowed the river.  Homo and Gwynplaine shortly reached the brink.

The ship moored to the wharf was a Dutch vessel, of the Japanese build, with two decks, fore and aft, and between them an open hold, reached by an upright ladder, in which the cargo was laden.  There was thus a forecastle and an afterdeck, as in our old river boats, and a space between them ballasted by the freight.  The paper boats made by children are of a somewhat similar shape.  Under the decks were the cabins, the doors of which opened into the hold and were lighted by glazed portholes.  In stowing the cargo a passage was left between the packages of which it consisted.  These vessels had a mast on each deck.  The foremast was called Paul, the mainmast Peter—­the ship being sailed by these two masts, as the Church was guided by her two apostles.  A gangway was thrown, like a Chinese bridge, from one deck to the other, over the centre of the hold.  In bad weather, both flaps of the gangway were lowered, on the right and left, on hinges, thus making a roof over the hold; so that the ship, in heavy seas, was hermetically closed.  These sloops, being of very massive construction, had a beam for a tiller, the strength of the rudder being necessarily proportioned to the height of the vessel.  Three men, the skipper and two sailors, with a cabin-boy, sufficed to navigate these ponderous sea-going machines.  The decks, fore and aft, were, as we have already said, without bulwarks.  The great lumbering hull of this particular vessel was painted black, and on it, visible even in the night, stood out, in white letters, the words, Vograat, Rotterdam.