Whereon, out of the stern sheets, arose, like an angry ghost, the portly figure of Lucy Passmore, and shrieked in shrillest treble—­

“Eh! ye villains, ye roogs, what do ye want staling poor folks’ boats by night like this?”

The whole party recoiled in terror, and one turned to run up the beach, shouting at the top of his voice, “’Tis a marmaiden—­a marmaiden asleep in Willy Passmore’s boat!”

“I wish it were any sich good luck,” she could hear Will say; “’tis my wife, oh dear!” and he cowered down, expecting the hearty cuff which he received duly, as the White Witch, leaping out of the boat, dared any man to touch it, and thundered to her husband to go home to bed.

The wily dame, as Rose well guessed, was keeping up this delay chiefly to gain time for her pupil:  but she had also more solid reasons for making the fight as hard as possible; for she, as well as Rose, had already discerned in the ungainly figure of one of the party the same suspicious Welsh gentleman, on whose calling she had divined long ago; and she was so loyal a subject as to hold in extreme horror her husband’s meddling with such “Popish skulkers” (as she called the whole party roundly to their face)—­unless on consideration of a very handsome sum of money.  In vain Parsons thundered, Campian entreated, Mr. Leigh’s groom swore, and her husband danced round in an agony of mingled fear and covetousness.

“No,” she cried, “as I am an honest woman and loyal!  This is why you left the boat down to the shoore, you old traitor, you, is it?  To help off sich noxious trade as this out of the hands of her majesty’s quorum and rotulorum?  Eh?  Stand back, cowards!  Will you strike a woman?”

This last speech (as usual) was merely indicative of her intention to strike the men; for, getting out one of the oars, she swung it round and round fiercely, and at last caught Father Parsons such a crack across the shins, that he retreated with a howl.

“Lucy, Lucy!” shrieked her husband, in shrillest Devon falsetto, “be you mazed?  Be you mazed, lass?  They promised me two gold nobles before I’d lend them the boot!”

“Tu?” shrieked the matron, with a tone of ineffable scorn.  “And do yu call yourself a man?”

“Tu nobles! tu nobles!” shrieked he again, hopping about at oar’s length.

“Tu?  And would you sell your soul under ten?”

“Oh, if that is it,” cried poor Campian, “give her ten, give her ten, brother Pars—­Morgans, I mean; and take care of your shins, Offa Cerbero, you know—­Oh, virago!  Furens quid faemina possit!  Certainly she is some Lamia, some Gorgon, some—­”

“Take that, for your Lamys and Gorgons to an honest woman!” and in a moment poor Campian’s thin legs were cut from under him, while the virago, “mounting on his trunk astride,” like that more famous one on Hudibras, cried, “Ten nobles, or I’ll kep ye here till morning!” And the ten nobles were paid into her hand.