M. Pfingsten took courage to speak.
“Our master can never surrender the crown of Poland or General Patkul.”
Karl paused on the threshold of the inner room.
“Why was John Patkul arrested in Dresden the other day, as soon as his protector, the Muscovite, had left for Astrakan?”
“It was of some mistake, sire——”
“Ah,” interrupted Karl, with an ugly laugh, “it was no mistake. Your master saw that he had the Livonian in his house before he asked for peace—and why? Because he knew that I should ask for Patkul and that he would surrender.”
With these words, spoken with a cold indifferency more than any passionate tone of insult, Karl, disdaining to hold further argument with the envoys of his fallen enemy or to take any ceremonious leave of them, bowed briefly to the Saxons and left the chamber.
Baron D’Imhof could hardly contain himself.
“So this is greatness!” he exclaimed ironically. He put up the paper in his bosom. “We will wait on you to-morrow, Count, though I doubt if it will be of any use.”
“You have heard my master’s will,” replied Count Piper, “and he never changes his resolutions.”