Peter touched the planes and lathes on the carpenter’s bench.
“This,” he said. “No, he could not turn a table-leg—nor found a city.”
“He can conquer kingdoms,” said Patkul bitterly enough.
Peter leant back against the rough wall of the shed; his short, soft, dusky curls were hanging over his eyes; his expressive charming face was pale and tired; his large dark eyes full of a veiled fire; his blue blouse was open on a fine cambric shirt (he was always very nice in his linen) and his breeches and woolen stockings were covered with sawdust and chips of wood.
He looked at Patkul kindly.
“Do you think that what that man does will endure?” he asked.
“Conquests have endured, sire, nations have been enslaved for generations through the exploits of a man like this.”
The Czar was not thinking of the freedom of future generations; he meant to build a great nation, not a free one.
“Sweden can never hold the Baltic Provinces,” he replied.
“Who is to prevent him?”