At two o'clock on May morning a fishing-boat, with a small row-boat in
tow, stole up the harbour between the lights of the vessels that lay
at anchor. She came on a soundless tide, with her sprit-mainsail
wide and drawing, and her foresail flapping idle; and although her
cuddy-top and gunwale glistened wet with a recent shower, the man who
steered her looked over his shoulder at the waning moon, and decided
that the dawn would be a fine one. A furlong below the Town Quay he
left the tiller and lowered sail: two furlongs above, he dropped
anchor: then, having made all ship-shape, he lit a pipe and pulled an
enormous watch from his fob. The vessels he had passed since entering
the harbour's mouth seemed one and all asleep. But a din of horns,
kettles, and tea-trays, and a wild tattoo of door-knockers, sounded
along the streets behind the stores and houses that lined the
water-side. Already the town-boys were ushering in the month of May.

The man waited until the half-hour chimed over the 'long-shore roofs
from the church-tower up the hill; set his watch with care; and sat
down to wait for the sun. Upon the wooded cliff that faces the town
the birds were waking; and by-and-bye, from the three small quays came
the sound of voices laughing, and then a boat or two stealing out of
the shadow, each crowded with boys and maids. Before the dawn grew red
above the cliff where the birds sang, a dozen boats had gone by him on
their way up the river, the chatter and broken laughter returning down
its dim reaches long after the rowers had passed out of sight.

For some moments longer he watched the broadening daylight, till the
sun, mounting above the cliff, blazed on the watch he had again pulled
out and now shut with a brisk snap. His round, shaven face, still
boyish in middle age, wore the shadow of a solemn responsibility. He
clambered out into the small boat astern, and, casting loose, pulled