Then he raised his head and straightened himself on the saddle, to
think. But to no purpose. He had no plan; everything would depend
upon the situation; the thought of forestalling any action of the
conspirators, by warning or calling in the aid of the authorities, for
an instant crossed his mind, but was as instantly dismissed. He had but
an instinct--to see with his own eyes what his reason told him was true.
Day was breaking through drifting scud and pewter-colored clouds as he
reached Woodville ferry, checkered with splashes of the soil and the
spume of his horse, from whose neck and flanks the sweat rolled like
lather. Yet he was not conscious how intent had been his purpose until
he felt a sudden instinctive shock on seeing that the ferryboat was
gone. For an instant his wonderful self-possession abandoned him; he
could only gaze vacantly at the leaden-colored bay, without a thought or
expedient. But in another moment he saw that the boat was returning from
the distance. Had he lost his only chance? He glanced hurriedly at his
watch; he had come more quickly than he imagined; there would still
be time. He beckoned impatiently to the ferryman; the boat--a ship's
pinnace, with two men in it--crept in with exasperating slowness.
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