“Call him the Elector,” said Karl. “It is the safer title—we give him that out of courtesy since Saxony is as lost to him as Poland.”
The envoy bowed, swallowed his humiliation, and began again.
“My master trusted something in the blood that unites him to your Majesty.”
“Did he remember that we are cousins when he allied himself with Russia to seize my provinces?” demanded Karl.
With that, he turned his shoulders towards the two plenipotentiaries, and broke the seal of the unfortunate Elector’s letter.
Count Piper eyed him as he read.
Half-leaning against the table with the lamp-light full over his figure, the young King, with his perfect physique, air of strength and hardihood, his noble face and soldier’s bearing, made a picture grateful to the eye.
“Generous and merciful!” thought the minister. “They think him that because he punishes a soldier who steals a chicken, and gives away a crown he might have worn—but we shall see if he knows even the meaning of generosity and mercy.”
Karl finished the letter, put it in his pocket, and glanced over his shoulder at the two waiting Saxons.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “you shall have your answer immediately.”