“He would, eh?” added Karl, with a look that was like a blow in the face to the proud woman to whom it was directed.
“So that is your errand?” continued the King, still fixing her with a hard and merciless stare that became increasingly contemptuous.
“I have not stated my errand,” replied Aurora; her eyes flashed to meet his and the blood stained her face. “From the manner in which your Majesty treats a woman, I do not think you would be tender with a rebel—need we therefore be so nice in discussing General Patkul?”
“It is not in my nature to be tender,” said the King, with his ugly smile. “I shall not be merciful either with Patkul nor yet with Augustus of Saxony.”
“Your Majesty makes a boast of cruelty, then? I had hoped one of your nobleness would have been satisfied by having your enemy your supplicant.”
Her bosom heaved beneath the rough mantle and her face was beautiful in her sincere indignation, flushed and vivid with feeling and emotion; but she might have been a hag for all the effect she had on Karl of Sweden.
“Peace in Varsovia, Madame,” he repeated sternly, and turned and galloped away down the frosty road, this time without a salutation.
Aurora gazed after the disappearing figure with eyes dimmed by tears of passionate rage; she was cold and trembling, never had she believed herself capable of any passion as strong as the hatred now inspired in her haughty heart by this young man.
“A hero!” she thought, “a boorish boy! a rude churl!”
Slowly she turned back to her lodging; useless to expose herself to further mortification—it would be only to repeat her failure, only to madden herself for nothing.