The two small boats were a full mile from the Narrows, through which one enters Duncan’s Bay. At that moment a white fishing boat, fully forty feet long and gay with all manner of flags and bunting, was entering the Narrows.
There were a number of men and women on board, all gayly dressed, and, until a few moments before, enjoying a grand fete of music and dancing. Now they were silent. Duncan’s Bay affects all in this same manner. Dark, mysterious, deserted, it seems to speak of the past. A hush falls upon all alike as they pass between the narrow, sloping walls that stand beside the entrance to this place of strange enchantment.
Conspicuous because of his size and apparent strength, one man stood out from the other voyagers. Garbed in green breeches and a gayly decorated vest, he stood at the prow, massive brown arms folded, silently directing the course of the boat by a slight swaying, this way and that, of his powerful body.
Florence was quick. Hours of work in a gymnasium each day for months on end had given her both the speed and strength of a tiger. Before the intruder could strike she had seized her oar and was prepared to parry the blow.
The oars came together with a solid thwack. Not a word was said as they drew back for a second sally. This was to be a silent battle.
The man tried a straight on, sword-like thrust. It became evident at once that he meant to plunge her into the icy water. What more?
Swinging her oar in a circle, she struck his weapon such a blow as all but knocked it from his hands.
Before he could regain his grip, she sent a flashing blow that barely missed his head, coming down with a thud upon his back.
Turning upon her a face livid with anger, he executed a crafty thrust to the right, leading her weapon astray. Before she could recover, her boat tipped. She fell upon one knee. At the same instant there came a crashing blow that all but downed her for a count of ten. The man smiled.
“I’m done!” her aching heart seemed to whisper.