“I will not interfere with his Spartan habits,” thought the minister grimly.
He went to the door again and looked out on the fair night, opal pale, and the long encampment, colorless light and dark shade under the moon.
Count Piper thought as he had never thought before on the eve of any of the many battles at which he had been present, of the men sleeping now for the last time, of the distant homes they would never see again, of the Swedish blood that would water this arid soil to-morrow, and the Swedish bones that would crumble into the dust of this lost country.
Already the camp was full of movement; the beautiful horses of the Kalmucks and Cossacks could be seen moving among the tents, and here and there the moonlight fell on the steel of cuirass or the bosses of leather trappings, as the Swedish officers rode from one point to another fulfilling General Rehnsköld’s orders.
Count Piper was preparing to go to his own tent for an hour’s rest, if indeed his body could repose when his heart was so heavy, but a sudden exclamation from the King startled him into turning.
Karl was sitting up, his right hand flung out and grasping his sword.
His face showed ghastly in the mingled lamp and moonlight, his wet hair looked dark on his forehead, and his eyes were staring and congested from fever.
“I thought I was being broken on the wheel,” he muttered in a low tone.
He tried to move, and the pulsing anguish the effort brought him made him remember his crushed limb.
“Faugh!” he exclaimed, in a tone of angry disgust. The sword dropped from his hand on to the earthen floor; he started, then peered at the silent figure by the door.