“A man of those lion-like qualities,” he said, “is not so easily subdued.”
“He may not be,” replied the other shrewdly, “but without resources he can do nothing.”
Peter turned his head and listened to this conversation.
“How many men has Sweden with him?” he asked, setting down his glass.
“They do not know, Peter Alexievitch,” replied Mentchikoff, “but it cannot be many—only those fugitives who contrived to escape across the frontier.”
“No one of importance?”
“Not beyond Poniatowski, Müllern, his chancellor, and a few officers—and the old Mazeppa,” said Mentchikoff.
At the mention of the hetman of the Cossacks Peter’s face twitched with fury.
“May the devil overtake that ancient traitor,” he cried, “and roast him to all eternity!”
He did not care to dwell on the thought of the escape of this rebel, who had indeed behaved with ingratitude and falsity to the monarch who had so warmly befriended and protected him.