On the sea and at Schouwen their splendid costumes had obtained a beggarly appearance.  The velvet and brocade extorted from the rich citizens of Antwerp, now hung tattered and faded around their sinewy limbs.  They looked like foot-pads, vagabonds, pirates, yet sat, as military custom required, exactly in the order of their rank; on the march and in the camp, every insurgent willingly obeyed the orders of the new leader, who by the fortune of war had thrown pairs-royal on the drumhead.

One thing was certain:  some decisive action must be taken.  Every one needed doublets and shoes, money and good lodgings.  But in what way could these be most easily procured?  By parleying and submitting on acceptable conditions, said some; by remaining free and capturing a city, roared others; first wealthy Mechlin, which could be speedily reached.  There they could get what they wanted without money.  Zorrillo counselled prudent conduct; Navarrete impetuously advised bold action.  They, the insurgents, he cried, were stronger than any other military force in the Netherlands, and need fear no one.  If they begged and entreated they would be dismissed with copper coins; but if they enforced their demands they would become rich and prosperous.

With flashing eyes he extolled what the troops, and he himself had done; he enlarged upon the hardships they had borne, the victories won for the king.  He asked nothing but good pay for blood and toil, good pay, not coppers and worthless promises.

Loud shouts of approval followed his speech, and a gunner, who now held the rank of captain, exclaimed enthusiastically: 

“Navarrete, the hero of Lepanto and Haarlem, is right!  I know whom I will choose.”

“Victor, victor Navarrete!” echoed from many a bearded lilt.

But Zorrillo interrupted these declarations, exclaiming, not without dignity, while raising his baton still higher.  “The election will take place to-morrow, gentlemen; we are holding a council to-day.  It is very warm in here; I feel it as much as you do.  But before we separate, listen a few minutes to a man, who means well.”  Zorrillo now explained all the reasons, which induced him to counsel negotiations and a friendly agreement with the commander-in-chief.  There was sound, statesmanlike logic in his words, yet his language did not lack warmth and charm.  The men perceived that he was in earnest, and while he spoke the sibyl went behind him, laid her hand on his shoulder, and wiped the perspiration from his brow with her handkerchief.  Zorrillo permitted it, and without interrupting himself, gave her a grateful, affectionate glance.

The bronzed warriors liked to look at her, and even permitted her to utter a word of advice or warning during their discussions, for she was a wise woman, not one of the ordinary stamp.  Her blue eyes sparkled with intelligence and mirth, her full lips seemed formed for quick, gay repartee, she was always kind and cheer ful in her manner even to the most insignificant.  But whence came the deep lines about her red mouth and the outer corners of her eyes?  She covered them with rouge every day, to conceal the evidence of the sorrowful hours she spent when alone?  The lines were well disguised, yet they increased, and year by year grew deeper.