He longed to draw his sword once more and feel that atmosphere of excitement and peril that was the breath of life to him.
Added to this he was deeply angry with the Turks; no one could tell the bitterness of his disappointment in having failed to achieve a Turkish army to lead against Peter.
And the news from Europe could hardly have been worse; all his enemies had attacked his estates during his absence, Augustus was once more King of Poland, and Russia occupied the place Sweden had so lately held as Arbiter of the North.
All these reflections weighed on Grothusen as he addressed the King.
“Sire, there is a party of janissaries on their way to your Majesty, and I beseech you to listen to them.”
Karl looked up as if he had been startled from a reverie.
Without replying he took the letter from M. Fabrice, broke the seal, and read the enclosure from Count Poniatowski.
The intrepid Pole had fallen into disfavor with the Sultan after Karl’s imprudent demand for more money and was not permitted to be with the Court, then at Adrianople; he had, however, managed to keep in touch with affairs, and he now wrote to inform the King that it was but too true that Ahmed had ordered the Khan to proceed to extremity if Karl refused to move from Bender.
In impassioned words of love and respect Poniatowski implored the King to relinquish his mad design of resistance, to think no more of assistance from Turkey, and to return to his own country, trusting to his own genius to retrieve his fortunes.
The King put down the letter and rose.