His lordship stood up, and shaking back the cloud of lace from his wrist, held out a delicate white hand.
“Captain Blood, I discover greatness in you,” said he.
“Sure it's your lordship has the fine sight to perceive it,” laughed the Captain.
“Yes, yes! Bud how vill you do id?” growled van der Kuylen.
“Come on deck, and it's a demonstration I'll be giving you before the day's much older.”
CHAPTER XXX. THE LAST FIGHT OF THE ARABELLA
“VHY do you vait, my friend?” growled van der Kuylen.
“Aye—in God's name!” snapped Willoughby.
It was the afternoon of that same day, and the two buccaneer ships rocked gently with idly flapping sails under the lee of the long spit of land forming the great natural harbour of Port Royal, and less than a mile from the straits leading into it, which the fort commanded. It was two hours and more since they had brought up thereabouts, having crept thither unobserved by the city and by M. de Rivarol's ships, and all the time the air had been aquiver with the roar of guns from sea and land, announcing that battle was joined between the French and the defenders of Port Royal. That long, inactive waiting was straining the nerves of both Lord Willoughby and van der Kuylen.