Long did Bevil Goring remain on deck alone, sunk in deep and sad thoughts.
Was she indeed beneath those moonlit waves over which he was so swiftly gliding. He shivered as he looked at them, and turned his eyes to the star-studded sky; at last he wearied of the incessant repetitions from the watch to the man at the wheel, 'starboard,' 'port,' 'hard-a-port, 'steady,' every ten minutes or so when a vessel came near, and the tiresome iteration of their orders only ceased when the fog-horns began to sound, when the anchor was let go near a long line of lights that twinkled dimly through mist upon the shore to the eastward, and Bevil Goring knew that he was now close in on the Continent.
Midnight was long since past, and he went below; the weary steward was still yawning in his pantry, when Bevil thought another brandy and seltzer would do him no harm.
'How long may we be here?' he asked, impatiently.
'Till the fog lifts, sir, or day breaks, certainly.'
'Then we may not get to Rotterdam till midday?'
'Rotterdam, did you say, sir?' asked the steward, with a stare of surprise.
'Yes.'
'Why, sir, this is the Antwerp boat, and these lights on shore are Flushing—we're in the Scheldt.'
Goring was exasperated on hearing this—a cause of delay and trouble quite unexpected.