The sun was setting into a bank of rosy vapour that promised a continuance of fine weather. The hot day was closing with a sultry eve. On that quiet canal, and on the narrow quay beneath the lofty houses, there was no sound or sign of life. It was almost as if he were in the midst of some dead and long since deserted city.
But of a sudden the peacefulness of that mediæval scene was rudely disturbed. First was heard a confused noise in the distance, as of angry human voices and the trampling of many wooden shoes. Louder, nearer was the sound, and then Carew perceived a man rush out upon the quay from a narrow alley, some hundred yards away, that led towards the principal docks. The man, who seemed frantic with terror, stood still for one brief moment, looked quickly around him, as if uncertain whither to hurry next: whether to plunge into the canal, or run along the quay to left or right.
Then arose a loud yell of many voices behind him, as of hounds that at last have caught a view of the hunted creature; and the man, hearing it, darted off again at full speed along the canal bank in the direction of the yacht.
Immediately afterwards there poured out of the alley a crowd of nearly a hundred men, women, and children, mostly of the lowest orders; denizens of the slums, though some were of a more respectable class; a crowd of Hollanders who had lost all their native phlegm for the nonce; a crowd gesticulating, howling, execrating, thirsting for the blood of the man they were pursuing; mad and fierce as a mob of Paris in revolutionary days when an aristocrat was scented by the sovereign people.
The wretched man was hatless; his coat and half his shirt had been torn from his back; the blood was trickling down his face from the wounds on his head where the stones that had been hurled at him had hit.
On he came, running wildly before them, his face livid, his mouth open, his teeth set, eyes starting from his head with mortal terror, panting as if his heart must burst, ready to fall with exhaustion, but still hurrying on for his dear life's sake.
When he was close to the yacht his strength failed him; he stretched out his arms wildly, and staggered. With a yell of triumph the cruel crowd was on him. A man struck him over the head with a stick. Then, with one last despairing effort, he threw himself from the quay on to the yacht's deck, and fell a helpless mass at Carew's feet, clutching him by the legs, as if to implore his protection, but unable to speak or move.
His pursuers stood on the quay above, muttering angrily to each other, but hesitated a moment or so before they ventured to board the yacht, each waiting for someone else to lead the way.
Those few moments saved the hunted man.
"Below there!" cried Carew, pointing to the cabin. "Quick, man, or you will be lost."