“Who by?” asked Karl sharply.
“Ismail Pasha, sire, who paid for M. Grothusen out of his own pocket, the English minister, and that French nobleman, La Motraye, who came to Bender to see your Majesty.”
“And you yourself,” said the King keenly. “You have contributed your best.”
“Sire, it was my bare duty.”
“You shall all be repaid,” answered Karl briefly; pecuniary obligations weighed very lightly on him, for he made no account at all of money in which he had no interest, and which he profusely scattered whenever it was in his possession.
Still the obligation to the generous Pasha slightly galled him.
“Is Frederic ransomed?” he asked abruptly.
“Alas, sire, he was slain by the Tartars who captured him, and who quarreled over their victim.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Karl, then he added, “I think first he must have slain a dozen of these barbarians with his own hands!”
M. Fabrice was silent a moment, and the King stared down at the floor.