That name was the cause of all his wrath and soreness, all his stubborn pride and deep fury; the Czar, the only man who had been worthy of his steel—the man who had defeated him—the man, who, through what Karl considered the baseness of Mahomet Baltadgi, had escaped vengeance on the banks of the Pruth.
In many bitter ways had Peter made Karl feel the sting of defeat.
Piper, Rehnsköld, Wurtemberg, and other ministers and generals, famous and glorious for their part in Karl’s great victories, his close companions for ten years, had marched in chains, two by two, through the streets of St. Petersburg, following the barbaric triumph with which the Czar impressed his people.
And the Muscovite ambassadors at Constantinople had flourished with Swedish slaves, the heroes of Klissow and Poltava, in their train.
And Karl had the humiliation of knowing that the rest of his veterans, the flower of the army, were working as slaves in Siberia or teaching their masters their native handicrafts.
Every way Peter was prosperous; his navy rode the waters of the gulf of Riga and the gulf of Finland; his armies spread all over the Baltic Provinces, and held Poland at their mercy; his ambassadors were received at every Court; the arts and sciences grew apace in Russia.
It was no wonder that his name inspired with despair the proud young warrior who had thought to dethrone him in a year.
“Do you think,” he suddenly asked aloud, “that I shall leave Turkey till I secure the punishment of Mahomet Baltadgi?”
He now hated this man, who had snatched his patiently waited-for vengeance from him, almost as much as he hated Peter Alexievitch.
“Count Poniatowski does his best——” began Grothusen.