of the boat or wavelets broke against the banks. Hilliard's eyes
had by this time become accustomed to the gloom, and he could dimly
distinguish the serrated line of the trees against the sky on
either side of him, and later, the banks of the clearing, with the
faint, ghostly radiance from the surface of the water.

He pulled on with swift, silent strokes, and presently the dark
mass of the Girondin loomed in sight. The ship, longer than the
wharf, projected for several feet above and below it. Hilliard
turned his boat inshore with the object of passing between the hull
and the bank and so reaching the landing steps. But as he rounded
the vessel's stern he saw that her starboard side was lighted up,
and he ceased rowing, sitting motionless and silently holding water,
till the boat began to drift back into the obscurity down-stream.
The wharf was above the level of his head, and he could only see,
appearing over its edge, the tops of the piles of pit-props. These,
as well as the end of the ship's navigating bridge and the gangway,
were illuminated by, he imagined, a lamp on the side of one of the
deckhouses. But everything was very still, and the place seemed
deserted.

Hilliard's intention had been to land on the wharf and, crouching
behind the props, await events. But now he doubted if he could
reach his hiding place without coming within the radius of the
lamp and so exposing himself to the view of anyone who might be on
the watch on board. He recollected that the port or river side of
the ship was in darkness, and he thought it might therefore be
better if he could get directly aboard there from the boat.

Having removed his shoes he rowed gently round the stern and examined