Strangely out of place in this chamber of gilt and satin, with the rose-wreath cupids painted on panels and ceiling, the ormolu tables and bric-a-brac of china and silver, looked the stern figure of the Swede.
His worn high boots were covered with road dust; his attire, plain as that of the trooper he had represented himself to be at the gates, set off his tall, robust figure; his hands, in the long elbow gloves, were clasped about the handle of his heavy sword; his light peruke was held back by a black ribbon, and his hat hung on the back of the chair.
He arose as Augustus entered, and gave him a brief salutation.
“I did not think that your Majesty would have thus far honored me,” stammered the Elector, flushing deeper.
“I could not leave your Highness’s country without coming to bid you farewell,” returned Karl calmly.
He showed no trace of triumph over, or sympathy with, the man he had discrowned; his manner was that of one casual acquaintance with another.
“I would like to see your fortifications,” he added, and a flicker of his unpleasant smile crossed his calm face.
Augustus had to make an effort to preserve his equanimity; the humiliations forced on him by Karl were too recent and too bitter even for one of his good nature to endure without fierce resentment.
But he knew that Karl, though seemingly in his power, had an army at the gates that could reduce his capital to submission in a few hours.
Also, all that was best in him longed to redeem the shameful delivery of Patkul into the hands of Karl, and he thought this was an opportunity to ask this one favor that the King of Sweden could scarcely refuse.