Mehalah. Baring-Gould Sabine

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 the vessel, and she caught the ladder which led 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. But I cannot explain the circumstances now. Come at once 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."

      "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 announnced to his mother that he wa 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 will put it behind me. With the blaze in my eyes I cannot see where to steer."

      "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.

      "The bullet was meant for you or me," said Mehalah in a low voice. "Had the lanthorn been in the bows, 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. 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. They 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 to listen, 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 bullrushes.

      "She is aground," said De Witt.

      "We must back into the channel and push on to the Ray," said Mehalah.

      The young man jumped into the water among the roots of the reeds, and drew the punt out till she floated, then he stepped in and resumed the oars.

      "Hist!" whispered De Witt. Both heard the click of a lock.

      "Down!" he whispered, and threw himself in the bottom of the punt.

      Another flash, report, and a bullet struck and splintered the bulwark.

      De Witt rose, resumed the oars, and rowed lustily.

      Mehalah had not stirred. She had remained erect in the stern and never flinched.

      "Coward!" she cried in a voice full of wrath and scorn, "I defy you to death, be you who you may!"

      Chapter 3 The Seven Whistlers

       Table of Contents

      THE examination of old Abraham before George De Witt did not lead to any satisfactory result. The young man was unable to throw light on the mystery. He had not been with the shepherd all the while since the sale of the sheep; nor had he seen the money. Abraham had told him the sum for which he had parted with the flock, and, in so doing, had chinked the bag significantly. Abraham had informed him of the sale in Colchester. Then they had separated, and the shepherd had left the town before De Witt.

      The young man had overtaken him at the public-house called the Red Lion at Abberton, half-way between Colchester and his destination. He was drinking a mug of beer with some seafaring men; and they proceeded thence together. But at the Rose, another tavern a few miles further, they had stopped for a glass and something to eat. But even there De Witt had not been with the old man all the while, for the landlord had called him out to look at a