“He is popular in Denmark, sire.”
“I am vexed,” added Karl, “that I let him take Gottorp—but,” he paused, then seemed to resolve to say no more on that subject. “England and the Netherlands will stand by us?” he asked.
“They certainly will not wish to see Denmark in possession of the commerce of the North, nor the Czar of Russia overspread his dominions. I believe we could count on the junction with the Anglo-Dutch fleet.”
“And Poland marches on Livonia,” said the King. “I hear his Saxon soldiers are very fine troops.”
“One thing has just come to my ears, sire—Patkul is with Poland.”
The King’s face hardened instantly at mention of this man who had led the Livonian revolts that had disturbed his father’s reign and whose intrigues had broken out again on his own accession; Patkul had been the only jarring note in the last years in Sweden; and rebellion was a hideous sin in the King’s rigid code of honor.
“When I make peace with Poland,” he said, “I shall bid him send back to me the traitor Patkul.”
Count Piper looked at him curiously; the certainty of his speech, the confidence of his bearing were amazing things, for they were entirely free from braggart vanity or youthful swagger.
The King saw his minister’s glance and slightly flushed.
“Perhaps,” he said quickly, “I seem vainglorious in my speech, but I was not thinking of myself, but of Sweden—Sweden could do great things, do you not think so, Count?”