Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint. As she crossed the square, almost within a stone’s throw of her lodgings, she came face to face with Courtlaw. Her lover, Darrell, has embarked upon the Thames, where, if he's not capsized by the squall, (for it's blowing like the devil,) he stands a good chance of getting his throat cut by his pursuers—ha! ha! I tracked 'em to the banks of the river, and should have followed to see it out, if the watermen hadn't refused to take me.
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