“I shall never forgive myself, Peter Alexievitch,” replied the Prince simply. “But who would have thought of such vileness? He has that smooth Western way of lies and smiles.”
“The woman Königsmarck is in this.”
“I do not think so. I know that she did her best to save Patkul; she has more courage than he, and I think, more honor. She is a friend, too, of Mdle. D’Einsiedel—that child will die of this, Peter Alexievitch.”
“What will they do with Patkul?” asked Peter fiercely.
“He is to be tried by a council of war. Karl treats him as a rebellious subject. He will suffer a cruel death.”
In Karl’s place Peter would have behaved with the same severity; he had never shown mercy to those whom he judged rebels, and therefore he did not feel the fury of hate towards Karl that he felt towards Augustus, but he was conscious of a certain wonder that this young king whom he had regarded with secret admiration as being much greater than himself, could indulge in the same bloodthirsty vengeances.
“Is this Sweden’s famous clemency?” he asked bitterly. “Is he then so magnificent?”
He was silent, communing with his own soul; he thought he would have been more chivalrous than Karl, and not taken advantage of the weakness of Augustus to demand the surrender of a man in the employ of another monarch.
From that moment the cold knightly figure of the Scandinavian, vested with all the virtues to which he himself might never hope to aspire, was smirched in the eyes of Peter.
“The Muscovite prisoners were slain after Fraustadt—by whose orders?” he said. “And now this. This man is no better than I,” he added, with a strange simplicity, “and I shall defeat him.”