She went into pretended convulsions of merriment. 'I cannot help it, this is really too ridiculous.'
Mehalah was trembling with anger. Her gipsy blood was in flame. There is a flagrant spirit in such veins which soon bursts into an explosion of fire.
Phoebe stepped up to her, and holding her delicate fingers beside the strong hand of Mehalah, whispered, 'Look at these little fingers. They will pluck your love out of your rude clutch.' She saw that she was stinging her rival past endurance. She went on aloud, casting a saucy side glance at De Witt, 'I should like to add my contribution to the trifle that is collecting for you since you lost your money. I suppose there is a brief. Off with the red cap and pass it round. Here is a crown.'
The insult was unendurable. Mehalah's passion overpowered her. In a moment she had caught up the girl, and without considering what she was doing, she flung her into the sea. Then she staggered back and panted for breath.
A cry of dismay from De Witt. He rushed to the side.
'Stay!' said Mehalah, restraining him with one hand and pressing the other to her heart. 'She will not drown.'
The water was not deep. Several fisherlads had already sprung to the rescue, and Phoebe was drawn limp and dripping towards the shore. Mehalah stooped, picked up the girl's straw hat, and slung it after her.
A low laugh burst from someone riding in a boat under the side of the vessel.
'Well done, Glory! You served the pretty vixen right. I love you for it.'
She knew the voice. It was that of Rebow. He must have heard, perhaps seen all.