The Holsteiner shifted the ragged coat-collar around his cheeks and went on with muffled voice and eager gestures: “King Carolus laughs with delight when the bridge breaks and men and beasts are miserably drownt. No heart in his breast. To the deuce wit him! King Carolus is such a little Swedish half-genius as wanders out in the worlt and beats the drum and parades and makes a fiasco, and the parterre whistles Whee!”
“And that is just why the Swedes go to death for him,” answered the ensign, “that is just why.”
“Not angry, my dearest fellow. Your teeth shone so in a laugh when we first met.”
“I like to hear the Herr Major talk, but I’m freezing. Will not the major go up and listen at the king’s door?”
The Holsteiner went up to the door and listened. When he came back he said, “He only walks and walks, and sighs heavily like a man in anguish of soul. So it always is now, they say. His Majesty nefer sleeps any more at night. The comedy-actor knows he is not up to his part, and of all life’s torments, wounded ambition becomes the bitterest.”
“Then it should also be the last for us to jest at. Dare I beg the major to rub my right hand with snow; it is getting numb.”
The Holsteiner did as he desired and turned back to the king’s door. He struck his forehead with both hands. His gray-sprinkled, bushy mustaches stood straight out, and he mumbled, “Gott, Gott! Soon it will be too dark to retreat.”
The ensign called, “Good sir, I should like to ask if you would rub my face with snow. My cheeks are freezing stiff. Of the pain in my foot I will not speak. Ah, I can’t bear it.”
The Holsteiner filled his hands with snow. “Let me stand guard,” he said, “only for an hour.”
“No, no. The king has commanded that I stay here at the entrance.”