The action continued with fiend-like ferocity for two hours.  Charles XII., with a pistol in his hand, was borne on his litter from rank to rank, animating his troops, until a cannon ball, striking down one of his bearers, also shattered the litter into fragments, and dashed the bandaged monarch to the ground.  With as much calmness as though this were an ordinary, everyday occurrence, Charles ordered his guards immediately to make another litter with their pikes.  He was placed upon it, and continued to direct the battle, paying no more attention to bullets, balls and bombshells, than if they had been snow flakes.

Peter was equally prodigal of danger.  Death in that hour was more desirable to him than defeat, for Charles XII., victorious, would march direct to Moscow, and Russia would share the fate of Poland.  The tzar was conspicuous at every point where the battle raged most fiercely.  Several bullets pierced his clothes; one passing through his hat just grazed the crown of his head.  At length, the Swedes, overpowered by numbers, gave way, and fled in great confusion.  Charles, though agonized by his wound, was compelled to mount on horseback as the only means of escape from capture.  The black hour of woe came, which sooner or later meets almost every warrior, however successful for a time his career may be.  The blow was fatal to Charles XII.  More than nine thousand of the Swedes were left dead upon the field of battle.  Eighteen thousand were taken prisoners.  The Swedish king, with a few hundred troops in his retinue, cut off from his retreat towards Sweden, crossed the Dnieper and fled to Turkey.  Peter did not pursue him, but being informed of his desperate resolve to seek refuge in the territory of the Turks, he magnanimously wrote a letter to him, urging him not to take so perilous a step, assuring him, upon his honor, that he would not detain him as a prisoner, but that all their difficulties should be settled by a reasonable peace.  A special courier was dispatched with this letter, but he could not overtake the fugitives.  When the courier arrived at the river Boy, which separates the deserts of Ukraine from the territories of the Grand Seignor, the Swedes had already crossed the river.  In the character of Peter there was a singular compound of magnanimity and of the most brutal insensibility and mercilessness.  He ordered all the Swedish generals, who were his captives, to be introduced to him, returned to them their swords and invited them to dine.  With a gracefulness of courtesy rarely surpassed, he offered as a toast the sentiment, “To the health of my masters in the art of war.”  And yet, soon after, he consigned nearly all these captives to the horrors of Siberian exile.