He walked up and down the narrow chamber with a languid step, for he was sick in mind and body.
“See how many there are to persuade me against my honor!” he exclaimed.
It galled him beyond words that he must return to his kingdom a fugitive and a beggar when his had been the most renowned name in Europe.
The miseries of Sweden were as nothing in his eyes compared to the affront offered to his pride in this proposed return under present conditions.
“Look you, Count Liewin,” he said abruptly, pausing in his walk, “I am without even the money for the journey—Grothusen will tell you how much I am in debt.”
“We could raise more money in Constantinople,” said Grothusen quickly. “For my part I do perceive that this return of yours is imperative, sire.”
The King gave his friend a strange look.
“Grothusen, do you recall a little dog I had, named Pompey, that died in Saxony? I thought you loved me well, but now I perceive that no one loved ever as did that beast—he never sought to turn me from my will!”
“Sire!” cried Count Liewin desperately, “does your Majesty mean that you will not return to Sweden?”
“Aye,” replied Karl, “we will return, Count, we will return!”