"How if they couldn't see to follow us?" he asked, abruptly. "How if we put out our lights and went on in the dark?"
"Not for ten pound a minute," said Tooby, "would I row without lights, a night like this. 'Tis bad enow as it is, with all the ships and small boats lying in the Pool here. E'en with our lanterns, we shall do well an we bump not our nose."
There was a silence, broken only by the plash of the oars, the creak of the rowlocks, the strange noises of the river, the lessening sound of what an obscure dramatist of those days describes as
"The bridge's cataracts, and such-like murmurs
As night and sleep yield from a populous number."
"But I will e'en try something better," added Tooby, presently, and forthwith gave an inaudible order to his men.
They instantly stopped rowing, and even proceeded to stay the boat's movement with the current, so that it remained almost stationary.
Millicent cried out in alarm as the lights behind came rapidly nearer.
"Peace, mistress," said Tooby. "There will be no blood spilled." He then spoke in a low tone to the men in the bow, and himself strode to the stern, where he stood with his long arms slightly crooked at the elbows as if to be in readiness for action.
Swiftly the other boat came alongside. Millicent, holding her breath, wondering what was about to occur, made out her father bending forward in the attitude of one ready to grasp and punish. The torch revealed Sir Peregrine also, limply huddled up so that his beard was between his knees, and two of the apprentices, one of whom held the torch.