“Very well,” said de Ruyter, with a little nod, “very well.”
The man disappeared into the darkness of the ship.
Michael de Ruyter looked again at the stars, at the lights of his ships, and then went below humming a song in a hoarse, guttural voice.
He found Cornelius de Witt alone in his cabin, seated before a table scattered with papers.
A silver oil-lamp hung by a chain from the ceiling and showed the plain furnishings, which served as a background to the splendid figure of the Ruard.
His strong and handsome features were stern and frowning; the full under-lip and prominent chin, that gave his face its great likeness to his brother’s more delicate countenance, were set grimly in his effort to control the pain of the rheumatism that tortured him. Dressed with the magnificence that befitted the dignity of the States, whose sole representative he was with the Fleet, he wore a grey velvet suit embroidered in silver, and a cravat of Mechlin lace tied with a flame-coloured ribbon.
On the wall beside him hung his sword, that swung with the swaying of the ship; on a chest beneath were a couple of richly mounted pistols and a few books and maps.
Admiral de Ruyter paused inside the door, standing with his feet far apart after the fashion of a man accustomed to pitching seas.
“Ah!” said the Ruard, looking up. “Is the wind still favourable?”
“It is,” answered Michael de Ruyter. “And unless it falls we shall make the coast of England before morning.”