My Lady Rotha: A Romance

by Stanley John Weyman

'Pardon me, I did not say so,' General Tzerclas answered. The wine had taken no effect on him, or perhaps he had drunk less. He was as suave and cold as ever.

'But you meant it!' the younger man retorted.

'No, I did not mean it,' the general answered, still unmoved. 'What I said was that Germany had produced no great commander in this war, which has now lasted thirteen years.'

'Prince Bernard of Weimar, my kinsman!' the Waldgrave cried.

'Pardon me,' Tzerclas replied politely. 'Pardon me again if I say that I do not think he has earned that title. He is a soldier of merit. No more.'

'Wallenstein, then?'

'You forget. He is a Bohemian.'

'Count Tilly, then?'

'A Walloon,' the general answered with a shrug. 'The King of Sweden? A Swede, of course.'

'A German by the mother's side,' my lady said with a smile.