“Ah, you, what have you done for all of us with your heroic deeds?” muttered Count Piper; he came into the tent and looked at the tall figure in the blue coat, with the flushed fair face and loosened neck-cloth, sleeping the heavy slumber of an utter fatigue that was stronger than the torture of his wound.
Count Piper was certain of complete disaster on the morrow; he did not believe that there was the least chance of a success against the Czar.
He saw better perhaps than his master, how Peter had labored towards this moment, how he had learnt bitterly and painfully the art of war from many defeats; he knew that the Russians at Poltava would not be as the Russians at Narva.
He was aware also in what a desperate condition were the forces of Karl, how two winters in this terrible country had tamed their pride and lowered their faith in their own good fortune.
And if this bubble of Karl’s invincibility was pricked, what then?
Nine years’ brilliant success would be, in a moment, valueless; Europe but yesterday at Karl’s feet would soon forget him, and Sweden, depleted of her men, penniless and abandoned by her King, would be a prey to the vengeance of her enemies.
Peter, bitterly offended by Karl’s brief “peace in Moscow,” and with many humiliations to avenge, would be no gentle foe.
In that moment Count Piper almost hated the King.
He was foolishly glad of the twinges of agony that caused Karl to moan in his slumber, and when the King gave a half-unconscious murmur for water the minister made no movement.
It had been his own wish that he should be left alone till the dawn when he was to be roused for the battle.