Kathleen bent over the water trying to untie it, and in one awful instant the Mermaid had reared herself up in the water, caught Kathleen in her long white arms, pulled her over the edge of the pool, and with a bubbling splash disappeared with her beneath the dark water.
She caught Kathleen in her arms.
Mavis screamed and knew it; Francis and Bernard thought they did not scream. It was the Spangled Child alone who said nothing. He had not offered to give back the lock of soft hair. He, like Kathleen, had knotted it round his neck; he now tied a further knot, stepped forward, and spoke in tones which the other three thought the most noble they had ever heard.
“She give me the plum pie,” he said, and leaped into the water.
He sank at once. And this, curiously enough, gave the others confidence. If he had struggled—but no—he sank like a stone, or like a diver who means diving and diving to the very bottom.
“She’s my special sister,” said Bernard, and leaped.
“If it’s magic it’s all right—and if it isn’t we couldn’t go back home without her,” said Mavis hoarsely. And she and Francis took hands and jumped together.
It was not so difficult as it sounds. From the moment of Kathleen’s disappearance the sense of magic—which is rather like very sleepy comfort and sweet scent and sweet music that you just can’t hear the tune of—had been growing stronger and stronger. And there are some things so horrible that if you can bring yourself to face them you simply can’t believe that they’re true. It did not seem possible—when they came quite close to the idea—that a Mermaid could really come and talk so kindly and then drown the five children who had rescued her.
“It’s all right,” Francis cried as they jumped.