Ben watched these manoeuvres with great interest, and strained every sinew in his frame to keep ahead of the other boats.

“Them’s catchpoles, I s’pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?” he observed.

“Something worse, I fear,” Wood replied.

“Why, you don’t think as how they’re crimps, do you?” Ben inquired.

“I don’t know what I think,” Wood answered sulkily; and he bent his eyes upon the water, as if he wished to avert his attention forcibly from the scene.

There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames.  The sounds that reach the ear, and the objects that meet the eye, are all calculated to awaken a train of sad and serious contemplation.  The ripple of the water against the boat, as its keel cleaves through the stream—­the darkling current hurrying by—­the indistinctly-seen craft, of all forms and all sizes, hovering around, and making their way in ghost-like silence, or warning each other of their approach by cries, that, heard from afar, have something doleful in their note—­the solemn shadows cast by the bridges—­the deeper gloom of the echoing arches—­the lights glimmering from the banks—­the red reflection thrown upon the waves by a fire kindled on some stationary barge—­the tall and fantastic shapes of the houses, as discerned through the obscurity;—­these, and other sights and sounds of the same character, give a sombre colour to the thoughts of one who may choose to indulge in meditation at such a time and in such a place.

But it was otherwise with the carpenter.  This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing.  It was a night of storm and terror, which promised each moment to become more stormy and more terrible.  Not a bark could be discerned on the river, except those already mentioned.  The darkness was almost palpable; and the wind which, hitherto, had been blowing in gusts, was suddenly lulled.  It was a dead calm.  But this calm was more awful than the previous roaring of the blast.

Amid this portentous hush, the report of a pistol reached the carpenter’s ears; and, raising his head at the sound, he beheld a sight which filled him with fresh apprehensions.

By the light of a torch borne at the stern of the hostile wherry, he saw that the pursuers had approached within a short distance of the object of their quest.  The shot had taken effect upon the waterman who rowed the chase.  He had abandoned his oars, and the boat was drifting with the stream towards the enemy.  Escape was now impossible.  Darrell stood erect in the bark, with his drawn sword in hand, prepared to repel the attack of his assailants, who, in their turn, seemed to await with impatience the moment which should deliver him into their power.

They had not to tarry long.  In another instant, the collision took place.  The watermen, who manned the larger wherry, immediately shipped their oars, grappled with the drifting skiff, and held it fast.  Wood, then, beheld two persons, one of whom he recognised as Rowland, spring on board the chase.  A fierce struggle ensued.  There was a shrill cry, instantly succeeded by a deep splash.