But it was of no avail. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. He could scarcely blame her. "At a place we call the Dark House at Queenhithe," answered Jonathan, "a sort of under-ground tavern or night-cellar, close to the river-side, and frequented by the crew of the Dutch skipper, to whose care he's to be committed. To make sure work of it, I'll superintend the job myself. The idea of this sudden reluctance was elusive; the fact was evident but not the reason for it. You’ll never see the light of day as long as you live.
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