He was weak now after his fit and there was a dullness on his spirit almost akin to peace; he was frowning, and his beautiful eyes were well stained with blood, but his glance sought with a certain gratitude the cool peace of the green beyond the square window, and he was glad of the quiet, watchful presence of his friend.
“Danilovitch,” he said, in a low voice, “I must get back to Moscow,” then “If Cronstadt were built and I had a navy, I would batter this boy by sea.”
He sat up slowly, a languid, graceful figure in the soiled dressing-gown; he had bitten his tongue when he fell and his mouth was still marked with blood; a few tiny spots of red were on the front of the fine cambric shirt; his forehead was damp with perspiration and the soft glossy curls hung in wild disorder; yet his face, so round in the contours still, with a certain bloom and freshness, attractive, gentle in expression, was the face of a youth, sensitive and dreamy.
Prince Mentchikoff did not answer; he was not yet sure of his master’s mood and feared to say something that might irritate him.
“And if I had an army I could batter him by land,” added Peter, with a hard smile.
“Your Majesty has an army,” ventured Mentchikoff.
“Has it ever been tried in battle?” demanded the Czar grimly. “Is there anyone in the whole of Russia who knows anything of the art of war?”
“It is for you to teach them,” ventured the Prince.
“There is much I have to teach Russia,” remarked the Czar.
He stood up, to the full of his great height, and pushed back his hair impatiently with both damp hands.