There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. Here one might live the life of golden days. But, feeling secure of vengeance, he determined to abide his time. "You shall not pass," cried several of the crowd. “Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. He renewed his supplications to Sharples, but with no better success than heretofore; and the greater part of the night was passed by him and the poor widow, whose anxiety, if possible, exceeded his own, in the most miserable state imaginable.
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