“Why, they’re answering your whistle already!” said Florimel.
“A whistle goes farther, and perhaps is more imperative than any other call,” returned Malcolm evasively. “Will your ladyship come down and hear what they say?”
A wave from the slow-silting lagoon of her girlhood came washing over the sands between, and Florimel flew merrily down the stair and across hall and garden and road to the river-bank, where was a little wooden stage or landing place, with a few steps, at which the dinghy was just arriving.
“Will you take us on board and show us your boat?” said Malcolm.
“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Davy.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Florimel took Malcolm’s offered hand, and stepped into the boat. Malcolm took the oars, and shot the little tub across the river. When they got alongside the cutter, Travers reached down both his hands for hers, and Malcolm held one of his for her foot, and Florimel sprang on deck.
“Young woman on board, Davy?” whispered Malcolm.
“Ay, ay, sir—doon i’ the fore,” answered Davy, and Malcolm stood by his mistress.
“She is like the Psyche,” said Florimel, turning to him, “only the mast is not so tall.”
“Her topmast is struck, you see my lady—to make sure of her passing clear under the bridges.”