A monarch who goes about in habitual fear of assassination betrays his knowledge that he has failed to win the love or veneration of his subjects.
Cuthbert mused idly of these things as he pushed out into the middle of the river, and then eased up and looked about him to see if his movements were observed.

It was beginning to grow dusk now.
The sun had dipped behind the trees and buildings.

The two sentries on the wharf had turned their backs upon the river, and were entering a tavern.

The other wherries were all making for the shore, and the tide was running in strongly and carrying Cuthbert's boat upstream for him in the direction whither he would go.
Letting himself drift with the tide, and contenting himself with keeping the prow in the right direction, Cuthbert drifted on his way quite as fast as he cared to.

He had not often been as far up the stream as this, since business always took him down towards the shipping in the mouth of the river.