He stared at the watch in his palm, the engraved inscription which he knew by heart.

"Conquered, on a couch alone I lie

Once in dream's conceit you came to me

All dreams outstripped, if only thou wert nigh-"

Bolitho said, "We shall see the Medway directly."

Something in the dullness of his voice made Ferguson watch him uneasily. The same dark, intelligent features, the eyes which could laugh or show compassion; and yet something was lost. Perhaps forever.

Old Matthew called out to the leading post-boy and the carriage came slowly to a halt where the road met with the gradient of a shallow hill.

Old Matthew disliked using post-boys when he had handled four horses, even six at a time, from the age of eighteen in the Bolitho service. But it was a long journey back to Falmouth, to the last inn where he would recover his own two pairs of chestnut horses, which he was said to love more than his wife.

Bolitho heard Allday mutter, "Not here, matey. I can manage without his blessing!"

The carriage moved forward again, the horses scraping their shoes on the damp ground and shaking their harness like sleigh bells.

Bolitho lowered a window and saw the reason for his coxswain's agitation.

They were at a dreary crossroads; a stone which read, To London, thirty miles shared the deserted place with a gibbet which swung slightly in the wet breeze.

A tattered, eyeless thing hung in irons. It was hard to believe it might have once lived and loved like other men. A felon, a common thief, now denied even the dignity of burial.

Bolitho climbed down from the carriage and stamped his feet to restore the circulation. He could smell salt from here, and beyond a ragged procession of trees he saw the great curving outline of the river. It looked flat and unmoving, more like pewter than water hurrying to join the sea.