172 1(/fMBLES OF A VOfMINIS 



of sailors, with bronzed, sea-beaten faces, are lounging 

 on the bank, waiting for the first rush of the tide. 



Along the low horizon, a pale saffron line is broadening 

 to the dawn. The mist of an autumn morning hangs 

 heavily on far-off trees, whence the dark figures of rooks 

 begin to scatter over the meadows. 



All at once there is heard, through the still morning 

 air, a long, low roar. Far down the stream a cry is 

 raised, taken up by the idlers on the bank and echoed by 

 brickyard men who have stopped their work to watch 

 the Bore " Here she comes." 



Bound the far bend appears a line of white, drawing 

 rapidly nearer. Right across the river runs the wave 

 a roaring wall of water, four feet high, breaking on the 

 unruffled surface of the motionless stream. It rushes 

 high along the bank on either hand, rocking the tall 

 ships like toys, and on and on among the shipping 

 moored along the quays. A pilot boat coming up on the 

 swift current is whirled along like a bit of flotsam, though 

 steadied deftly with well-handled sculls. 



In such a rush, Cromwell and Fairfax, reconnoitring 

 the defences of the castle from a boat on the river, were 

 taken unawares and their craft was within an ace of 

 being overset. 



In a quarter of an hour the water has risen eight feet ; 

 and still it streams on, bringing up long trails of sea- 

 weed from the shore, tufts of sedge torn off from distant 

 banks, corks from some fisher's net, pieces even of bam- 

 boo, that on far-reaching currents have been drifted 

 half-way round the world. 



