Suddenly he stopped.

His new self--that phantom second-nature bred of custom--vanished in the twinkling of an eye, and left him plain Loo Barebone, of Farlingford, staring across the green water toward "The Last Hope," deep-laden, anchored in mid-stream.
Seeing him stop, a boatman ran toward him from a neighbouring flight of steps.
"An English ship, monsieur," he said; "just come in.

Her anchors are hardly home.

Does monsieur wish to go on board ?" "Of course I do, comrade--as quick as you like," he answered, with a gay laugh.

It was odd that the sight of this structure, made of human hands, should change him in a flash of thought, should make his heart leap in his breast.
In a few minutes he was seated in the wherry, half way out across the stream.