Karl stared at her.
“I am not afraid of the Czar of Muscovy,” he replied.
The Queen laughed, the thin and heartless laugh of old age.
“I am sure your Majesty is afraid of nothing,” said Count Piper quickly, “but you must be a little fearful for Sweden.”
Karl gave a sullen glance at the speaker; he was still drinking and could hardly hold himself upright in his chair; a shadow passed over the face of the minister; he would not look at the Queen for he knew her expression would be one of sour triumph; his tired eyes narrowed and he kept them fixed on the King.
Karl leant forward with a lurching movement and stared into his glass in which still hung, as he tipped it, a drop of brilliant wine.
“The Czar,” he muttered, “the Czar——”
Then he suddenly broke into fury, dashed down the glass, and staggered to his feet.
“God help you, Madame,” he shouted at the Queen, “but do you think that I am no match for the Czar of Muscovy?”
He stood as if he threatened her, flushed and with eyes gleaming as only bright blue eyes can.