Everyone but the King was muffled in mantles and furs; Karl wore his plain uniform with black cravat and top-boots.
He had now completely recovered from his sickness—the sickness engendered by a soft life—and was at the height of his great strength and perfect hardihood; he had filled out to the proportions of a Viking, could live on bread and water, go without food for days, sleep on the ground in midwinter with no covering but his cloak, and no pillow save one of straw.
It was this strength of body, this fortitude of soul, this stern, austere life, that made him so respected and feared, that neither in court nor camp did anyone dare to murmur at the misfortunes he had brought on Sweden.
M. Hesse-Cassel took his leave to return to his own quarters, and Karl awaited the coming of M. Mégret.
He was impatient to take Fredrikssten and to proceed into Norway, and he thought that the works were not as advanced as they should be.
He walked up and down the little tent, his step ringing on the frozen ground, his breath clear before him in the frosty air.
As M. Mégret entered he raised his head; the Frenchman looked at him and thought, “If the Czar could see you now he would not be too secure,” so redoubtable did Karl appear with his magnificent make, his noble inflexible face, his cold air of power.
“M. Mégret,” he said, “I should like to see your works.”
The engineer bowed and followed the King out of the tent.
The soldiers were desperately laboring in the starlight.