It was pitch dark in Deptford Creek, neither moon nor star. Uneasily walking by the waterside on the squelching mud flats, or on the landing-stage among tuns and chests and beams and piles of stone ballast, you might just make out the mast and round hull of the cog _Rose Mary_, as she swung slowly at her moorings. On the one side, the broad flood of the Thames shone dully like molten lead or thick oil; on the other, one or two lights glimmered faintly from Deptford town. There was a smell of tar and bilge-water and stale beer. Beneath the light of the lantern, which burned dimly on the poop of the _Rose Mary_, lay Peter the Shipman comfortably on a coil of rope. By his side was a stoup of the strongest French wine he had been able to find in the cog’s hold. He had reason to be merry that night, so he trolled jolly choruses to himself between his long draughts. The _Rose Mary_ had sailed from Bordeaux with the tide on the night of the last Wednesday, and here she was, gotten into Deptford Creek safe and sound by the Friday midnight. Never had he made such an easy and speedy passage. Besides, in his purse he bore certain pieces of silver, which he had gotten from the chapman of the Bordeaux ward at easy purchase, together with a rose noble, which he had picked from the purse of a young squire, who had taken passage with him to England. Peter chuckled. He thought to himself, ‘To-morrow early shall I leave these knaves, Thomas and Ralph, to unlade, and will I forth to the Golden Cock in Deptford to my leman Kate, to be jolly and to play me with her all the day, and I shall have great plenty of silver to buy me as much good ale as I want (curse this feeble French wine!), and as many delicate cakes and puddings and pies and ripe Kentish cherries as I can get into my belly. And the day after that shall I to Newington with that knave Ralph, to his wench’s by the Green, and stay there till all my money is spent, and then, heigho, for my pretty little Bette at Bordeaux. Beshrew my heart, how I love the girl, now I’ve left her a day or two.’ Then he burst out into a sailor’s catch. ‘Who leadeth so merry, so merry his life, As the Shipman of Sandwich, who wanteth a wife.’ At the sound of his voice a woman came out of the darkness and stood at the edge of the landing-stage in the faint light cast by the ship’s lantern. She was clad in many-coloured and tawdry garments, and from his place on the poop Peter could discern the chalk and rouge plastered on her cheeks and the bright vermilion on her lips; he knew her for a wench of the town. She peered into the cog.