It was now poor Margaret's turn to tremble, and she felt more than language can speak. She had heard of Hudson--Captain Hudson, as he was called--but had no idea that her lover was that, or such a man. She felt a revulsion amounting to sickness, a giddiness overcame her, and she felt as if she must fall to the earth. Half carried, half urged, half pulled along, she was unconsciously moving, with her eyes fixed fully upon the boat, and approaching it, and she had no power to resist--a sort of trance-like senselessness seemed to overpower her; and yet she felt that hand, knew that form, and saw the waters and the boat, and had no energy or impulse to resist. Her heart was so struck with the deadliness of grief and despair, that the nerves had no power to obey the will, and the will seemed but a wish to die. We cannot die when we wish it, and it is well for us we cannot. Happy they who do not shrink when the time comes appointedly; thrice happy they who welcome it with joy, and hope, and love! Margaret revived a little before she reached the boat, and resisted. The firm grasp of the smuggler was not, however, to be loosed. "You do not mean to force me away, William?" "I must, if you will not go." "I will not go." "You shall--you must--you cannot help it! Do not resist." "Shame, William, shame! Is this your love?" "It is, Margaret, it is. I mean you fair." "Your means are foul. Let me go, William! let me go!" "Yes: you shall go on board my boat." "Not with my life, William. I will go overboard!" "Then will I follow you; but I cannot parley longer. Come on!" The poor girl's struggles now became so violent, and her efforts to escape so powerful, that Will Laud's utmost strength could not drag her along the sand. Her fears, too, were increasing with his cruel violence; and these fears were greatly increased by Laud giving a loud, shrill boatswain's whistle. This awakened her to the sight of the trap into which she had been beguiled, for, in another moment, she saw a man spring from the boat, and hasten towards her. He came along with rapid strides to join them, and soon, with horrid voice, exclaimed,-- "Your signal, Laud, is late indeed, but better late than never." That voice was too well known by Margaret: 'twas the hated countryman's--'twas John Luff's. This fellow seized her in his arms, and, as a tiger would swing a fawn over his back, so poor Margaret was swung over his shoulders in an instant. The last effort a defenceless female can make is the shriek of despair; and such a one was heard, as not only sounded through the woods of Downham Reach, but reached the opposite shores of Woolverstone Park.