“The occupation of your Majesty’s life is to be war?”
“What other occupation is there for a gentleman?” asked Karl.
Count Piper did not attempt to argue with him nor to express any opinion on this speech; Karl’s career had been so startlingly and dazzlingly successful that it seemed useless to warn him or advise him; the cautious and prudent minister did not even venture now to point out the immense difficulties of an invasion of Russia, and the almost superhuman task it would be to subdue such a country and dethrone such a man as Peter.
Karl could point to achievements so splendid that it seemed an impertinence to hint at possible disaster, or to urge caution on one whose exploits had been heroic to the point of miracles.
“At least, sire, accept some of the fruits of your victories.”
“You mean the crown of Poland?” said Karl thoughtfully.
He rose and went to the door of the tent, and stood looking out into the encampment that was fresh with spring breezes.
The minister gazed at him with the questioning curiosity and amazement that this young man had never failed to rouse in his heart.
Karl was now twenty-two years of age; a temperate, active, and simple life had developed his already splendid constitution into perfect hardihood; physically he was like the ancient Vikings whose exploits formed the subject of the sole literature he cared to read; tall, in fine proportion, with powerful shoulders and slender hips, and with the easy carriage of the soldier and the horseman, a creature of bone and muscle, nerve and sinew perfectly attuned.
His face had slightly changed, broadened and grown harder in the lines, but the expression was the same, the full lips, the curved nostrils, the blank eyes showed the same unmoved courage, the same indifference to things about him that had once made Count Piper liken him to a god—or an animal.