Mynheer Buys was telling me that he has but lately been to Kappelle and Schiedam. I will wager that they have pierced the dykes all the way from here to Rotterdam, and even as far as Kappelle. But the tide does not rise high at this time of the year, and there is only an east wind, so that the water flows in slowly. But see! see!” and he pointed far off in the sky, where a tiny speck floated,—a mere golden moat in the sunshine. I feel certain that is one of our pigeons, Jacqueline. He flies like ‘William of Orange.’”
“Thou hast good eyes, Gysbert! I can see nothing but a faint speck. Let us watch it, though.” Together they waited in breathless suspense, while the speck drew nearer and assumed more definite shape.
“Look how the left wing droops a trifle. I know that is ‘William of Orange’!” cried Gysbert. In an incredibly short time the bird had passed the limits of the city wall,
