Now, rising one by one to the face of that quiet water, could be seen bubbles, and the line of them ran from the cutter towards the rowing boat.  Presently, within six feet of it, axe in hand, rose the strange and dreadful figure of a naked, skeleton-like woman covered with mud and green weeds, and bleeding from great wounds in the back and sides.

There it stood, shaking an axe at the terror-stricken Spaniards, and screaming in short gasps,

“Paid back! paid back, Ramiro!  Now sink and drown, you dog, or come, visit Red Martin on the shore.”

“Well done, Martha,” roared Martin, as he dragged her dying into the boat.  While he spoke, lo! the cutter began to fill and sink.

“There is but one chance for it,” cried Ramiro, “overboard and at them.  It is not deep,” and springing into the water, which reached to his neck, he began to wade towards the shore.

“Push off,” cried Foy, and they thrust and pulled.  But the gold was heavy, and their boat had settled far into the mud.  Do what they might, she would not stir.  Then uttering some strange Frisian oath, Martin sprang over her stern, and putting out all his mighty strength thrust at it to loose her.  Still she would not move.  The Spaniards came up, now the water reached only to their thighs, and their bright swords flashed in the sunlight.

“Cut them down!” yelled Ramiro.  “At them for your lives’ sake.”

The boat trembled, but she would not stir.

“Too heavy in the bows,” screamed Martha, and struggling to her feet, with one wild scream she launched herself straight at the throat of the nearest Spaniard.  She gripped him with her long arms, and down they went together.  Once they rose, then fell again, and through a cloud of mud might be seen struggling upon the bottom of the Mere till presently they lay still, both of them.

The lightened boat lifted, and in answer to Martin’s mighty efforts glided forward through the clinging mud.  Again he thrust, and she was clear.

“Climb in, Martin, climb in,” shouted Foy as he stabbed at a Spaniard.

“By heaven! no,” roared Ramiro splashing towards him with the face of a devil.

For a second Martin stood still.  Then he bent, and the sword-cut fell harmless upon his leather jerkin.  Now very suddenly his great arms shot out; yes, he seized Ramiro by the thighs and lifted, and there was seen the sight of a man thrown into the air as though he were a ball tossed by a child at play, to fall headlong upon the casks of treasure in the skiff prow where he lay still.

Martin sprang forward and gripped the tiller with his outstretched hand as it glided away from him.

“Row, master, row,” he cried, and Foy rowed madly until they were clear of the last Spaniard, clear by ten yards.  Even Elsa snatched a rollock, and with it struck a soldier on the hand who tried to stay them, forcing him to loose his grip; a deed of valour she boasted of with pride all her life through.  Then they dragged Martin into the boat.