He had risen from his bed to receive Count Liewin and wore his old blue uniform, black cravat, and top-boots; he was thin and pallid, the blue eyes half-closed, his air languid and apathetic.
His face was beginning to be lined and shadowed; his fair hair was close cropped and receding from the forehead; he was newly shaven and fresh in his person, for he had to the full the Northern fastidiousness as to cleanliness, but his habit was more than ever careless, and there was not as much as a ring on his finger to show his rank.
Count Liewin, looking at him, thought he was different indeed to the gallant youth who had left Stockholm fifteen years before, as indeed Sweden was different to what she had been.
He went on one knee and kissed Karl’s passive hand.
“Sire,” he said, in a low voice, “all Europe thinks you are dead.”
Karl looked at him without answering.
“There is no one who can believe,” added Count Liewin, “that Sweden is in such a pass and Karl XII still alive.”
These words seemed to move Karl, he colored and dropped his gaze.
“Tell me,” he said, “the news from Sweden.”