“Petticoats, by gee—ingo!”
“Ay!” exclaims another, “a pair o’ them. An’ sweet wenches they be, too. Look at she wi’ the gooldy hair—bright as the sun itself. Lord, meeats! if we had she down in the pit, that head o’ her ud gi’e as much light as a dozen Davy’s lamps. An’t she a bewty? I’m boun’ to have a smack fra them red lips o’ hers.”
“No,” protests the first speaker, “she be myen. First spoke soonest sarved. That’s Forest law.”
“Never mind, Rob,” rejoins the other, surrendering his claim, “she may be the grandest to look at, but not the goodiest to go. I’ll lay odds the black ’un beats her at kissin’. Le’s get grup o’ ’em an’ see! Coom on, meeats!”
Down go the drinking vessels, all four making for their boat, into which they scramble, each laying hold of an oar.
Up to this time the ladies have not felt actual alarm. The strange men being evidently intoxicated, they might expect—were, indeed, half-prepared for—coarse speech; perhaps indelicate, but nothing beyond. Within a mile of their own home, and still within the boundary of the Llangorren land, how could they think of danger such as is threatening? For that there is danger they are now sensible—becoming convinced of it, as they draw nearer to the four fellows, and get a better view of them. Impossible to mistake the men—roughs from the Forest of Dean, or some other mining district, their but half-washed faces showing it; characters not very gentle at any time, but very rude, even dangerous, when drunk. This known, from many a tale told, many a Petty and Quarter Sessions report read in the county newspapers. But it is visible in their countenances, too intelligible in their speech—part of which the ladies have overheard—as in the action they are taking.
They in the pleasure-boat no longer fear, or think of, bars and eddies below. No whirlpool—not Maelstrom itself, could fright them as those four men. For it is fear of a something more to be dreaded than drowning.
Withal, Gwendoline Wynn is not so much dismayed as to lose presence of mind. Nor is she at all excited, but cool as when caught in the rapid current. Her feats in the hunting field, and dashing drives down the steep “pitches” of the Herefordshire roads, have given her strength of nerve to face any danger; and, as her timid companion trembles with affright, muttering her fears, she but says—
“Keep quiet, Nell! Don’t let them see you’re scared. It’s not the way to treat such as they, and will only encourage them to come at us.”
This counsel, before the men have moved, fails in effect; for as they are seen rushing down the bank and into their boat, Ellen Lees utters a terrified shriek, scarcely leaving her breath to add the words—“Dear Gwen! what shall we do?”