“You do not think they will escape this time?”
“By God’s help, no.”
The Admiral seated himself on the chest inside the door and looked down at the great crimson rosettes on his boots.
The lamp threw his shadow behind him, bringing into relief his deep-coloured, seamed, and blunt-featured face, that was rendered attractive by the composed, lofty expression and the bright, intelligent black eyes.
“I think we shall meet them at last,” he added, with an air of satisfaction.
A week ago Cornelius de Witt had obtained the consent of the States General to his earnest desire for an engagement, and since then the Dutch Fleet had been cruising in search of the combined fleets of France and England, whose junction at Portsmouth they had been unable to prevent.
A bold fishing-boat had brought them news that the enemy was at anchor on the east coast between Harwich and Yarmouth, and silently through the June night the ships of the United Provinces, crowding all canvas, bore forward to battle.
Cornelius de Witt put up his letters, one to his brother and one to his wife.
“I hope to add good news to them—to-morrow,” he said, smiling at de Ruyter.