Mehalah (Gothic Classic). Baring-Gould Sabine

Phoebe's hair resembled a spring fleecy cloud gilded by the sun, buoyant in the soft warm air, that of Mehalah was like an angry thunder shower with a promise of sunshine gleaming through the rain.

      'Black or gold, which do you most admire, George?' asked the saucy girl.

      'That is not a fair question to put to me,' said De Witt in reply; but he put his fingers through the dark tresses of Mehalah, and raised them to his lips. Phoebe bit her tongue.

      'George,' she said sharply. 'See the sun is in my hair. I am in glory. That is better than being so only in name.'

      'But your glory is short-lived, Phoebe; the sun will be set in a minute, and then it is no more.'

      'And hers,' she said spitefully, 'hers—you imply—endures eternally. I will go home.'

      'Do not be angry, Phoebe, there cannot be thunder in such a golden cloud. There can be nothing worse than a rainbow.'

      'What have you got there about your neck, George?' she asked, pacified by the compliment.

      'A riband.'

      'Yes, and something at the end of it—a locket containing a tuft of black horsehair.'

      'No, there is not.'

      'Call me "mate," as you did when we were at the Decoy. How happy we were there, but then we were alone, that makes all the difference.'

      George did not answer. Mehalah's hot blood began to fire her dark cheek.

      'Tell me what you have got attached to that riband; if you love me, tell me, George. We girls are always inquisitive.'

      'A keepsake, Phoebe.'

      'A keepsake! Then I must see it.' She snatched at the riband where it showed above De Witt's blue jersey.

      'I noticed it before, when you were so attentive at the Decoy.'

      Mehalah interposed her arm, and placing her open hand on George's breast, thrust him out of the reach of the insolent flirt.

      'For shame of you, how dare you behave thus!' she exclaimed.

      'Oh dear!' cried Phoebe, 'I see it all. Your keepsake. How sentimental! Oh, George! I shall die of laughing.'

      She went into pretended convulsions of merriment. 'I cannot help it, this is really too ridiculous.'

      Mehalah was trembling with anger. Her gipsy blood was in flame. There is a flagrant spirit in such veins which soon bursts into an explosion of fire.

      Phoebe stepped up to her, and holding her delicate fingers beside the strong hand of Mehalah, whispered, 'Look at these little fingers. They will pluck your love out of your rude clutch.' She saw that she was stinging her rival past endurance. She went on aloud, casting a saucy side glance at De Witt, 'I should like to add my contribution to the trifle that is collecting for you since you lost your money. I suppose there is a brief. Off with the red cap and pass it round. Here is a crown.'

      The insult was unendurable. Mehalah's passion overpowered her. In a moment she had caught up the girl, and without considering what she was doing, she flung her into the sea. Then she staggered back and panted for breath.

      A cry of dismay from De Witt. He rushed to the side.

      'Stay!' said Mehalah, restraining him with one hand and pressing the other to her heart. 'She will not drown.'

      The water was not deep. Several fisherlads had already sprung to the rescue, and Phoebe was drawn limp and dripping towards the shore. Mehalah stooped, picked up the girl's straw hat, and slung it after her.

      A low laugh burst from someone riding in a boat under the side of the vessel.

      'Well done, Glory! You served the pretty vixen right. I love you for it.'

      She knew the voice. It was that of Rebow. He must have heard, perhaps seen all.