Mehalah (Gothic Classic). Baring-Gould Sabine
'You are causing me to waste precious time. I must be back before the water is out of the fleets.'
'Whither are you going?' again asked Rebow, and again he drove his boat athwart her bows. 'It is not safe for a young girl like you to be about on the water after nightfall with ruffians of all sorts poaching on my saltings and up and down my creeks.'
'I am going to Mersea City,' said Mehalah.
'You are going to George De Witt.'
'What if I am? That is no concern of yours.'
'He is my cousin.'
'I wish he were a cousin very far removed from you.'
'Oh Glory! you are jesting.' He caught the side of the punt with his hand, for she made an effort to push past him. 'I shall not detain you long. Take these curlew. They are plump birds; your mother will relish them. Take them, and be damned to your pride. I shot them for you.'
'I will not have them, Elijah.'
'Then I will not either,' and he flung the dead birds into the water.
She seized the opportunity, and dipping her oars in the tide, strained at them, and shot away. She heard him curse, for his boat had grounded and he could not follow.
She laughed in reply.
In twenty minutes Mehalah ran her punt on Mersea beach. Here a little above high-water mark stood a cluster of wooden houses and an old inn, pretentiously called the 'City,' a hive of smugglers. On the shore, somewhat east, and away from the city, lay a dismasted vessel, fastened upright by chains, the keel sunk in the shingle. She had been carried to this point at spring flood and stranded, and was touched, not lifted by the ordinary tides. Mehalah's punt, drawing no draught, floated under the side of this vessel, and she caught the ladder by which access was obtained to the deck.
'Who is there?' asked George De Witt, looking over the side.
'I am come after you, George,' answered Mehalah.
'Why, Glory! what is the matter?'
'There is something very serious the matter. You must come back with me at once to the Ray.'
'Is your mother ill?'
'Worse than that.'
'Dead?'
'No, no! nothing of that sort. She is all right. But I cannot explain the circumstances now. Come at once and with me.'
'I will get the boat out directly.'
'Never mind the boat. Come in the punt with me. You cannot return by water to-night. The ebb will prevent that. You will be obliged to go round by the Strood. Tell your mother not to expect you.'
'But what is the matter, Glory?'
'I will tell you when we are afloat.'
'I shall be back directly, but I do not know how the old woman will take it.' He swung himself down into the cabin, and announced to his mother that he was going to the Ray, and would return on foot by the Strood.
A gurgle of objurgations rose from the hatchway, and followed the young man as he made his escape.
'I wouldn't have done it for another,' said he; 'the old lady is put out, and will not forgive me. It will be bad walking by the Strood, Glory! Can't you put me across to the Fresh Marsh?'
'If there is water enough I will do so. Be quick now. There is no time to spare.'
He came down the ladder and stepped into the punt.
'Give me the oars, Glory. You sit in the stern and take the lanthorn.'
'It is in the bows.'
'I know that. But can you not understand, Glory, that when I am rowing, I like to see you. Hold the lanthorn so that I may get a peep of your face now and then.'
'Do not be foolish, George,' said Mehalah. However, she did as he asked, and the yellow dull light fell on her face, red handkerchief and cap.
'You look like a witch,' laughed De Witt.
'I will steer, row as hard as you can, George,' said the girl; then abruptly she exclaimed, 'I have something for you. Take it now, and look at it afterwards.'
She drew the medal from her bosom, and passing the riband over her head, leaned forward, and tossed the loop across his shoulders.
'Don't upset the boat, Glory! Sit still; a punt is an unsteady vessel, and won't bear dancing in. What is it that you have given me?'
'A keepsake.'
'I shall always keep it, Glory, for the sake of the girl I love best in the world. Now tell me; am I to row up Mersea channel or the Rhyn?'
'There is water enough in the Rhyn, though we shall not be able to reach our hard. You row on, and do not trouble yourself about the direction, I will steer. We shall land on the Saltings. That is why I have brought the lanthorn with me.'
'What are you doing with the light?'
'I must put it behind me. With the blaze in my eyes I cannot see where to steer.' She did as she said.
'Now tell me, Glory, what you have hung round my neck.'
'It is a medal, George.'
'Whatever it be, it comes from you, and is worth more than gold.'
'It is worth a great deal. It is a certain charm.'
'Indeed!'
'It preserves him who wears it from death by violence.'
At the word a flash shot out of the rushes, and a bullet whizzed past the stern.
George De Witt paused on his oars, startled, confounded.
'The bullet was meant for you or me,' said Mehalah in a low voice. 'Had the lanthorn been in the bows and not in the stern it would have struck you.'
Then she sprang up and held the lanthorn aloft, above her head.
'Coward, whoever you are, skulking in the reeds. Show a light, if you are a man. Show a light as I do. and give me a mark in return.'
'For heaven's sake, Glory, put out the candle,' exclaimed De Witt in agitation.
'Coward! show a light, that I may have a shot at you,' she cried again, without noticing what George said. In his alarm for her and for himself, he raised his oar and dashed the lanthorn out of her hand. It fell, and went out in the water.
Mehalah drew her pistol from her belt, and cocked it. She was standing, without trembling, immovable in the punt, her eye fixed unflinching on the reeds.
'George,' she said, 'dip the oars. Don't let her float away.'
He hesitated.
Presently a slight click was audible, then a feeble flash, as from flint struck with steel in the pitch blackness of the shore.
Then a small red spark burned steadily.
Not a sound, save the ripple of the retreating tide.
Mehalah's pistol was levelled at the spark. She fired, and the spark disappeared.
She and George held their breath.
'I have hit,' she said. 'Now run the punt in where the light was visible.'
'No, Glory; this will not do. I am not going to run you and myself into fresh danger.' He struck out.
'George, you are rowing away! Give me the oars. I will find out who it was that fired at us.'
'This is foolhardiness,' he said, but obeyed. A couple of strokes ran the punt among the reeds. Nothing was to be seen or heard. The night was dark on the water, it was black as ink among the rushes. Several times De Witt stayed his hand and listened, but there was not a sound save the gurgle of the water, and the song of the night wind among the tassels and harsh leaves of the bulrushes.
'She is aground,' said De Witt.
'We