“Cease to weary me with that useless talk,” interrupted Karl fiercely.
Grothusen looked mournfully at the strong noble face; he felt an overwhelming pity for this life that was so strong and brave and steadfast, and so lonely and so thwarted, for this nature that had greatly dared, greatly achieved, and then had to endure the humiliation of complete failure.
Karl was not lovable, but in that moment his friend yearned over him as if he had been a woman.
Before either could speak again Baron Görtz entered.
The sixty janissaries, white-bearded veterans, unarmed and on foot, had arrived.
They sent the most humble, most respectful message to the King.
If he would only leave Bender they would themselves escort him anywhere he wished, even to Adrianople, so that he might put his case to the Sultan.
“I will not see them,” said the King.
“Sire, I fear they will never leave until you have spoken with them,” replied Görtz.
The King gave a deep sigh and rang the bell; Frederic the valet, who had held him on his horse at Poltava, appeared.