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
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 contrivance he had in his punt for putting a false keel on her.
The discussion had lasted some time, and when De Witt returned to the tavern, he found Abraham dozing, with his head on the table, and his money bag in his hand.
"It is clear enough," said the widow, "that the money was stolen either at the Lion or at the Rose."
"I brought the money safe here," said Abraham sullenly. "It is of no use your asking questions, and troubling my head about what I did here and there. I was at the Woolpack at Colchester, at the Lion at Abberton, and lastly at the Rose. But I tell you I brought the money here all safe, and laid it there on that table every penny."
"How can you be sure of that, Abraham?"
"I say I know it."
"Did you count the money at the Rose?"
"I don't care what you may ask. I brought the money here. If it has been bewitched since then, I am not to blame."
"Abraham, it must have been stolen on the road. There was no one here to take the money."
"That is nothing to me. I say I laid the money all right there!" he pointed to the table.
"You had better go, Abraham. No one disputes your honesty," said Mehalah.
"But I will not go, if anyone suspects me."
"Go off to bed, Abraham," said widow Sharland. "We have met with a dreadful loss, and the Almighty knows how we are to come out of it."
The old man went forth grumbling imprecations on himself if he answered any more questions.
"Well," asked Mehalah of De Witt, "what do you think has become of the money?"
"I suppose he was robbed at one of the taverns. The bag was not touched on the table from the moment Abraham set it down till you opened it."
"My mother was here all the time. There was no one else in the room but Elijah Rebow."
"He is out of the question," said De Witt. Besides, my mother never left her
