“No, sire.”
“If he had known it would never have been sent, I think,” said Karl. “Your master did well to keep this matter secret, seeing he is at the mercy of the Muscovites.”
“Sire, my master’s actions are dictated by necessity,” replied Baron D’Imhof. “He trusts a conqueror whom the world knows clement.”
“Clement,” returned the King. “I make no claim to be clement, sir. I am just.”
His glance flickered over both of them, then to the letter in his hand.
“You have shown some courage in undertaking so unpleasant a task,” he remarked.
“I was entrusted by King Augustus,” replied the Baron, “to obtain from your Majesty a peace on as Christian and reasonable terms as your magnanimity would be pleased to grant.”
“Why does your master,” asked Karl, “think I should be so merciful?”
The Saxon disliked this last word, but had to take it; he flushed slightly and bit his lip; this youthful conqueror was proving more difficult to deal with even than he had imagined. M. Pfingsten took the word.
“King Augustus——” he began.