"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.
"You said you vould show us zome vine dings. Vhere are dese vine
dings?"
Blood faced them, smiling confidently. He was arrayed for battle,
in back-and-breast of black steel. "I'll not be trying your
patience much longer. Indeed, I notice already a slackening in
the fire. But it's this way, now: there's nothing at all to be
gained by precipitancy, and a deal to be gained by delaying, as
I shall show you, I hope.
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