There it stood, shaking an axe at the terror-stricken Spaniards, and screaming in short gasps,
“Paid back! paid back, Ramiro! Now sink and drown, you dog, or come, visit Red Martin on the shore.”
“Well done, Martha,” roared Martin, as he dragged her dying into the boat. While he spoke, lo! the cutter began to fill and sink.
“There is but one chance for it,” cried Ramiro, “overboard and at them. It is not deep,” and springing into the water, which reached to his neck, he began to wade towards the shore.
“Push off,” cried Foy, and they thrust and pulled. But the gold was heavy, and their boat had settled far into the mud. Do what they might, she would not stir. Then uttering some strange Frisian oath, Martin sprang over her stern, and putting out all his mighty strength thrust at it to loose her. Still she would not move. The Spaniards came up, now the water reached only to their thighs, and their bright swords flashed in the sunlight.
“Cut them down!” yelled Ramiro. “At them for your lives’ sake.”
The boat trembled, but she would not stir.
“Too heavy in the bows,” screamed Martha, and struggling to her feet, with one wild scream she launched herself straight at the throat of the nearest Spaniard. She gripped him with her long arms, and down they went together. Once they rose, then fell again, and through a cloud of mud might be seen struggling upon the bottom of the Mere till presently they lay still, both of them.
The lightened boat lifted, and in answer to Martin’s mighty efforts glided forward through the clinging mud. Again he thrust, and she was clear.
“Climb in, Martin, climb in,” shouted Foy as he stabbed at a Spaniard.