“Ah, well,” he said, “I will tell you myself. We give battle to-morrow.”
Count Piper lifted his head and looked sharply at his master; so desperate a resolution was what he might have expected from the King, yet it startled him, as a general may be startled by the trumpets sounding the retreat he has himself ordered.
In silence the minister stared at the King, whose noble face was in the shadow beyond the deep glow of the oil lamp.
“At last we are face to face!” cried Karl, with an excitement that he would never have shown but for the fever in his blood. “Peter Alexievitch and I, after nearly ten years! He has always fled from me—ever since Narva.”
Sitting up in his bed, Karl reached out his hand for his sword, then let it drop while he stared at Piper.
“I met a man crying because he could get no news from his wife,” remarked the King, “and another who was sad for fear he should not see Stockholm again; those who follow me must learn to forget family and country—” pausing, he again put his hand to his forehead. “Aurora von Königsmarck once foretold disaster for me,” he added. “Had I been a greater prince if I had spared Patkul?”
Piper thought that the King must be delirious to talk like this; never had he known him to so unbosom himself, or to refer to these personal matters, or to speak in this tone of excitement; it frightened him to see his stern monarch thus reduced to ordinary humanity, and he went up to the bed and caught Karl’s hand, which was burning hot.
The King, however, had again perfect command of himself.
He gazed at Count Piper with the usual serenity in the blue eyes now hot and blood-flushed with pain.
“I am still Karl XII,” he said grimly, “and my men are still Swedes. Go to your prayers, Count, and leave me to my rest.”