"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. If 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.
