He stepped up to the Livonian and laid a hand on the sleeve of his rich uniform.
“Look you, Patkul,” he said, with a noble air far removed from boasting, “he takes Varsovia and Cracovia—but I built St. Petersburg! He sets his heel on Poland, I give my hand to Russia, and raise her up—a nation among nations.”
Patkul was both moved and comforted.
“Ah, sire, would that you were always in this mood!”
A shadow passed over the Czar’s expressive face.
“Sometimes the devils get hold of me,” he muttered, “and nothing on earth seems real. When this war is over, I shall travel again. I should have seen Venice,” he added, irrelevantly, “had not that rebellion of the Strelitz called me back—think, a city on the sea! I, too, will have my city on the sea. A pity that Gordon died—he was a good man, a keen soldier, a faithful envoy. Poor Gordon, but I gave him a fine funeral.”
“Your Majesty is as well served now,” said Patkul gently.
“I know,” replied Peter warmly and affectionately.
“And those who serve me well shall be well rewarded.”
“Your Majesty’s success would reward me sufficiently,” said the Livonian simply. “Could I see the Swede defeated and my country freed——”