Among them were many noble volunteers of the finest families of the kingdom, who had placed their services and their fortunes at the disposal of the country.
Michael de Ruyter, the son of the Zeeland brewer’s man, received them with simple courtesy.
They shook hands with him, and then with the Ruard, near whose chair he stood.
Every detail of the beautiful ship, and of the magnificently dressed men who stood gathered about her mast, shining gold and silver, velvets, satin, sword-hilts and pistols, eager faces, and bare yellow or brown heads (for they were all uncovered out of respect to Mynheer Cornelius de Witt), was sparkling visibly in the gay sunshine.
Admiral de Ruyter set his feet far apart, and again clasped his gauntleted hands behind him.
“Gentlemen of my fleet,” he said, and his quick eyes roved along the line of faces, “we are in the presence of the enemy. It is my intention to give battle. I feel that your courage and your devotion are equal to the difficulty and importance of your task.
“We have to face greater numbers, but on our side is justice, and with God’s help we shall not fail.
“The safety of the Country, the liberty of the United Provinces, the fortunes and the lives of their inhabitants depend upon this battle, and only your valour can secure the Republic against the unjust violence of the two kings who attack her.”
His pointed moustache seemed to bristle, and there was a fierce, steel-like gleam in his narrowed eyes.