The Ruard leant forward, supporting himself on the table.
“I am not so ill,” he answered, forcing a smile to his pale lips, “that I cannot go on deck to-morrow——”
“Nay, you cannot walk.”
“Well, I can be carried——”
“A deputy can take your orders——”
“The Representative of the States General cannot remain in his cabin when the Fleet is in action,” replied Cornelius de Witt proudly. “I will go on deck at daybreak.”
Michael de Ruyter said no more. Each in silence, and after his own fashion, had dedicated his life to his country.
The light of the swinging lamp shone in the bravery of velvets, gold buttons and braid, the trappings of swords and pistols, and on the calm, resolute faces of the two men who were being borne swiftly on to battle.
De Ruyter rose and opened the porthole.
The expanse of water, almost on a level with his eye, was beginning to glimmer with a greyish tinge.