“How long ago, sire?” asked General Rehnsköld anxiously.
“Soon after I left the camp,” replied Karl.
The officers glanced at each other; they knew that this meant that the King had been over six hours on horseback since his wound, giving orders as usual, and not in any way betraying his pain.
Leaning on General Lewenhaupt’s arm he entered the tent, his officers crowding in after him. It was still only early summer, but the air was dry and arid, and in the tent hot and close and full of a fine dust.
Karl seated himself on the plain folding-chair he always used, pulled off his gloves, and asked for a glass of water.
“This is an ugly mischance,” he said coldly. “I should have liked to have met the Czar on horseback.”
No groan or sigh passed his pallid lips, but his left hand gripped the side of the chair, and beads of agony stood on his broad forehead.
The surgeon entered, a little man with an eager face, one Neumann, well known for his great skill and learning in his profession; he was closely followed by two others, and the King’s personal domestics.
“Gentlemen,” said the King, lifting his blue eyes now dark with pain, “let us see how far I am unlucky.”
He held out his foot to the servant as if he wished him to draw the boot off, but Neumann was instantly on his knees, and had taken the injured limb delicately between his capable hands.