Estcourt is beside her now, and they are both up to their knees in the water. The men are resting on their oars as the boat glides slowly forward.
But Flora and Estcourt have it by the prow.
“Now, Estcourt, push off!” exclaims the former, as bending chest downwards she arrests its course. The edge of her kilt in front sinks into the water, in another moment her knee is on the boat’s edge, and she is standing in the bow with her companion by her side.
“Evie!” she exclaims, in a low excited voice, “how is it you have come this way? Is anything wrong? We expected you in a smack, and Gloria has gone to meet you.”
“A smack!” gasps the young duke. “What do you mean?”
But she does not answer him. She has turned, and is addressing the four clansmen.
“Ruglens,” she says quickly, “pull to the point for your lives! Pull men, pull; pull with the strength God gave you. God in heaven, pull!”
They answer to her appeal, do these young giants. Do they not know her well? Is she not a Ruglen? Are they not Ruglens too? Have they not as children played with their young chief and his sister, joined in their rambles, mingled with their sports? Well do these Highland laddies understand her quick command, understand it and obey. She has crossed to the stern, where the duke sits staring mutely at her.
“Give me the helm, Evie,” she says quietly. “I can steer the shortest cut. Don’t look like that, Evie; it may be all a mistake.”
But her voice tells him she does not think so.