These words produced a revolt among the janissaries, who swore to accord the three days to the King, and rushed in a tumult to the Pasha of Bender, declaring that the orders of the Sultan were forged.
Despite the protests of the Khan, Ismail Pasha postponed the assault till the next day, and drawing aside sixty of the oldest janissaries showed them the positive order of the Sultan, at the same time telling them to go peaceably to Karl and request his departure, offering themselves as his escort; so anxious was Ismail Pasha to avoid hurting Karl or any of his suite.
While these veterans were proceeding, armed only with the white wands they bore in times of peace, to the King’s camp, M. Fabrice, who could not now come to see the King in his state of siege, sent him a letter by the hands of a Turk, enclosing one from Poniatowski, then at Constantinople.
Baron Görtz took this dispatch to the King who was then (it was an early hour of the morning) alone in his chamber.
A great sadness filled the heart of this faithful friend as he looked at the King.
Karl, despite his strength and pride and obstinacy, was in a piteous position.
There was something heartrending, almost ridiculous in the King’s attitude; this useless heroism, this futile defiance—all that had been splendid at Poltava was pitiful at Bender.
And all the more so because Karl saw neither the pathos nor the tragedy of his situation, and disposed his cooks and grooms, his pastors and clerks, with as much gravity as he had disposed his veteran troops before Varsovia or Klissow.
Yet he was more moved than Grothusen had ever seen him, save in the Turkish camp at Pruth. Something of the old Viking fury that could only be satisfied by an orgy of blood was upon him, apart from his real conviction that it would be dishonor to depart peaceably; he lusted to fight.
A warrior by birth, inclination, and training, these four years of idleness had been almost unendurable to his fierce spirit.