“There are the Swedish prisoners who might be executed in reprisal,” remarked Mentchikoff.
This suggestion suited Peter’s breed and training, and, perhaps, his disposition, but that prudence and foresight that distinguished him from his predecessors caused him to reject a proposal that was useless and dangerous.
“There are more Muscovites in Sweden than Swedes in Muscovy,” he said grimly. “I will take another vengeance. I will march on Poland.”
He paused and tore at his neckcloth as if to loosen it and give himself air.
“Of all those who joined against Karl, there is only Russia left,” he added, with a terrible look. “But Russia will defeat him—listen, Danilovitch, I will not stop until I have crushed him, beaten him, reduced him, as he has crushed, beaten, and reduced Augustus! And if he slays Patkul——”
He paused and added in a low voice: “I loved Patkul.”
He took a turn about the room in a great and increasing agitation.
“Seven years have I fought him—with no weapons but those that I could forge myself well; he had everything to his hand, and he conquered. But I am ready now. Are not things different, Danilovitch? I have built a city and a fort, a navy; I have trained an army—can I not defeat Karl of Sweden?”
“I never doubted,” replied Mentchikoff, a look of fiery enthusiasm in his little dark eyes, “that your Majesty would bring down this insolent braggart.”
“To break him, Danilovitch!” cried the Czar. “To smash his invincible armies, to send his veterans flying before me, to make him fly—to drive him to ruin, to exile, to make the glory of his victories disappear like smoke before the sun! That would be an achievement, Danilovitch!”