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