And the scud of the thunder-storm darkens the sky.
Down the river they went, like the flight of a bird;
The twenty and seven said never a word—
They are after the fox of the ocean again,
And they’ll make not a stir as they enter his den.
It was three o’ the clock when, faintly ahead,
The lights of the city flashed yellow and red—
Then, sudden, a gleam, a cannon’s dull roar,
A challenge and halt from the river and shore.
But, surely, no need then to speak to them twice—