Nearer was the Archbishop's Palace, dark, lifeless; the roofs were defined against a sky made lurid by the streets of Lambeth.

On the pier below signalled two crimson lights.
The church bells kept up their clangorous discord, softened at times by the wind.

A steamboat came fretting up the stream; when it had passed under the bridge, its spreading track caught the reflected gleams and flung them away to die on unsearchable depths.

Then issued from beneath a barge with set sail, making way with wind and tide; in silence it moved onwards, its sail dark and ghastly, till the further bridge swallowed it.
The bells ceased.

Gilbert bent his head and listened to the rush of the water, voiceful, mysterious.