The sweat was still trickling down his face and down his back; but it had turned cold as ice.

A new idea had taken him, an idea of which at first he felt fairly afraid.

He passed a hand over his eyes and looked down again at the frigate.

But he stared at her stupidly, and his mind was busy with another picture.
It occurred to him that he must go on if he meant to arrange with Webber, that afternoon.

So he got up from the stone and went down the steep hill towards the ferry, stumbling over the rough stones in the road and hardly looking at his steps, but moving now rapidly, now slowly, like a drunken man.
The street that led down to the ferry dated back to an age before carts had superseded pack-horses, and the makers had cut it in stairs and paved it with cobbles.