The King approached, and, as soon as he saw her, sharply reined up his iron-gray charger, sending the scattered snow over the lady.
“Sire,” said Aurora, “I have never been a supplicant before; will you not make it a little easy for a beggar and—a woman?”
It was not quite what she had intended to say, and her voice faltered more than she had meant it to, for she was taken aback by the magnificent appearance and curious personality of the man to whom she spoke.
The King, with his plain uniform, black satin stock, remarkable face of immobile, almost displeasing beauty, was totally different to her preconceived notions of Karl.
He had himself so well in hand that he did not even change color at her address; he touched his hat in a stiff military salute, turned his horse, deftly, and rode back the way he had come.
It was a long while since the angry blood had rushed into Aurora’s face as it did now, coloring her fair skin from throat to forehead.
“So that is the King of Sweden!” she murmured. She shivered in her heavy furs and mounted her carriage, gazing after the figure of the departing horseman, clear against the pale tints of a sky colored with the first blue of a Northern spring.
She could do nothing but leave the scene of her defeat, but she did not accept her discomfiture as final; at least now she knew his person and could judge him, perhaps manage him better in consequence.
He was her own countryman, yet this type of the pure Scandinavian was fresh to her, after the many years she had lived abroad, and the fairness, hardness, and strength of this man repelled her; he was as powerful as Augustus and far more healthy; he sat his horse like a creature of steel and iron, at one with the magnificent creature he rode in power and purpose.
No passions had ever marked his face, which expressed nothing but an unfeeling calm and complete courage.