As he drew near the wharf he felt greatly relieved. He should, when he landed the woman now lying at his feet, have performed the great object of his life, and should spend the remainder of his days in placid contemplation in the old haunts he loved so well. On the wharf appeared the figure of a man, not semi-nude as Osborne had anticipated, but clad in a long cloak reaching from neck to heel. Osborne guided the canoe towards the wharf, and ran it alongside. The figure of the man never stirred. Osborne shouted out, and said he had brought the man's wife from Jutland. Upon this the figure moved across the wharf, and, having descended into the boat, caught the bundle of skins and the figure under it, and bore both to the wharf. For the first time Osborne now noticed he himself was chained by the leg to the thwart of the canoe. He did not care about that, for he was not going to land in desolate London; but would now push off, and go as far as Oxford by river. The tide was still running up strongly. The man stood on the wharf close to the edge, and held the woman in his arms. Osborne put the paddle against the wharf and pushed off with all his might. As he did so his foot slipped, and the paddle fell from his grasp, shot into the water, and did not rise again. It had stuck in the mud. With a cry of dismay he tried to clutch the side of the wharf, but it was beyond his grasp. He caught the side of the canoe and tugged at it with all his might, as though that could in that way influence the career of the boat, which now drifted slowly away from the wharf. He was in despair. What should he do? He could not guide this canoe without a paddle or oar. It would be driven against the abutment of a bridge, and capsized or stove in, and sunk. He stood up and looked around him with perplexity and alarm. At length he thought of the figures on the wharf. He was now thirty yards from it. The light was fuller. He raised his head. 'Merciful Heaven, seal up my eyes! Strike me dead! Take away my reason! O God of all mercy, have mercy upon me! Have mercy and let me die! 'Courage, Marie, Mary, love, sweetheart, wife! Courage! 'Maker of me, Maker of the universe, pardon me that one impious doubt, and let me come to her and save her! Oh, let me save her, my Marie, my love, my sweetheart! 'Courage, love! Courage!' He tore at the chain. It would not yield. He stamped and beat his brows in a frenzy of despair. At last he looks calm. A strong tide is running up. There is only one chance. Can he swim back to the wharf, towing the upturned boat after him? There is no other hope. He flings aside his coat and waistcoat and boots. In a moment he is in the water. How cold! He keeps his eye fixed on a spot on the shore. Merciful Heaven, his last chance is gone! His utmost efforts are powerless to stem the tide. He is rapidly drifting away from the wharf.