“A boat, miss; and they're hailing us now,” cried he, peeping over the gunwale. “They've put her about, and are following our course. They came out after us.”
“It was gallantly done, on such a night as this! I was just thinking to myself that poor old Mat Landy would have been out, were he living. You must take the tiller now, Loony, for I don't understand the lights on shore.”
“Because they're shifting every minute, miss. It's torches they have, and they 're moving from place to place; but we 'll soon be safe now.”
“Let us not forget this night, men,” said Mary, in a fervent voice. And then, burying her face within her hands, she spoke no more.
It was already daybreak when they gained the little harbor, well-nigh exhausted, and worn out with fatigue and anxiety. As for Mary, wet through and cold, she could not rise from her seat without assistance, and almost fainted as she put her foot on shore. She turned one glance seaward to where the other boat was seen following them, and then, holding Joan's hand, she slowly toiled up the rocky ascent to the village. To the crowd of every age that surrounded her she could only give a faint, sickly smile of recognition, and they, in deep reverence, stood without speaking, gazing on her wan features and the dripping garments which clung to her.
“No, not to the inn, Loony,” said she, to a question from him. “The first cabin we meet will shelter us, and then—home!” There was something of intense sorrow in the thought that passed then through her mind, for her eyes suddenly filled up, and heavy tears rolled along her cheeks. “Have they got in yet?” said she, looking towards the sea.
“Yes, miss; they're close alongside now. It's the revenue boat that went after us.”
“Wirra, wirra! but that's bad news for her now,” muttered a boatman, in conversation with an old woman at his side.
“What's the bad news, Patsey?” said Mary, overhearing him.
But the man did not dare to answer; and though he looked around on every side, none would speak for him.