“There is the port,” he murmured. “That dark point yonder is the Isle of Dogs. Good! I am half an hour in advance of them, an hour, perhaps. Fool that I was!
I have almost killed myself by my needless haste. Now,” he added, rising in the stirrups and looking about him, “which, I wonder, is the Lightning?”
At this moment, as if in reply to his words, a man lying on a coil of cables rose and advanced a few steps toward him. Mordaunt drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and tying a knot at each corner — the signal agreed upon — waved it in the air and the man came up to him. He was wrapped in a large rough cape, which concealed his form and partly his face.
“Do you wish to go on the water, sir?” said the sailor.