The King leant forward from the saddle; his look was as intent as that of an eagle bending from a rock to drop on its prey. He glanced forward at his beleaguered house then back at those about him.
His following numbered in all twenty persons, including the generals Hord, Dahldorf, and Sparre, M. Fabrice who had contrived to join the King, and Frederic his valet.
“Stand by me now,” cried the King, “and we will gain the house.”
Mad as they thought his action, there was not one of them who would not have been ashamed to draw back now.
Flinging himself from his horse, grasping in one hand his sword and in the other a pistol, Karl threw himself on the crowd of janissaries who surged before his door, and began to cut his way through the press.
The Turks hurled themselves on him; Ismail Pasha had promised eight golden ducats to each man who could only touch the habit of the terrible king, if he was captured, and the janissaries fought and struggled to get near the tall figure in the blue uniform.
Karl laughed; the fury and the joy of battle, doubly grateful after years of enforced idleness, filled his veins; he cut down all those who stood in his way and, a head and shoulders above the crowd, forced through to the door.
A Turk placed a musket at his head, Karl turned and ran him through the chest; the musket went off, the ball grazed the King’s nose, wounded his ear, and broke the arm of General Hord.
The Turks began to fall back before this man who appeared invincible and even superhuman; his long sword dripping blood, his pistol hot and smoking, his fair face calm yet lit with that cold fury of the North, so strange a thing to Eastern people, Karl of Sweden smote to right and left until he had cut his way to his doorstep.
The little garrison, who had been watching the desperate fight with breathless agitation, threw open the door.