2Nd officer.  Yes, I remember, twenty; even so it was told us.

1St officer. (To Gregory.) Then, evidently, you like a joke, brother.

(During the reading Gregory stands with downcast head, and his hand in his breast.)

Varlaam. (Continues.) “And in stature he is small, chest broad, one arm shorter than the other, blue eyes, red hair, a wart on his cheek, another on his forehead.”  Then is it not you, my friend?

(Gregory suddenly draws a dagger; all give way before him; he dashes through the window.)

Officers.  Hold him!  Hold him!

(All run out in disorder.)

MOSCOW.  SHUISKY’S HOUSE

Shuisky.  A number of Guests.  Supper

Shuisky.  More wine!  Now, my dear guests.

(He rises; all rise after him.)

The final draught! 
Read the prayer, boy.

Boy.  Lord of the heavens, Who art
Eternally and everywhere, accept
The prayer of us Thy servants.  For our monarch,
By Thee appointed, for our pious tsar,
Of all good Christians autocrat, we pray. 
Preserve him in the palace, on the field
Of battle, on his nightly couch; grant to him
Victory o’er his foes; from sea to sea
May he be glorified; may all his house
Blossom with health, and may its precious branches
O’ershadow all the earth; to us, his slaves,
May he, as heretofore, be generous. 
Gracious, long-suffering, and may the founts
Of his unfailing wisdom flow upon us;
Raising the royal cup, Lord of the heavens,
For this we pray.

Shuisky. (Drinks.) Long live our mighty sovereign! 
Farewell, dear guests.  I thank you that ye scorned not
My bread and salt.  Farewell; good-night.

(Exeunt Guests:  he conducts them to the door.)

Pushkin.  Hardly could they tear themselves away; indeed, Prince Vassily Ivanovitch, I began to think that we should not succeed in getting any private talk.

Shuisky. (To the Servants.) You there, why do you stand Gaping?  Always eavesdropping on gentlemen!  Clear the table, and then be off.

(Exeunt Servants.)

What is it, Athanasius
Mikailovitch?

Pushkin.  Such a wondrous thing! 
A message was sent here to me today
From Cracow by my nephew Gabriel Pushkin.

Shuisky.  Well?

Pushkin.  ’Tis strange news my nephew writes.  The son
Of the Terrible—­ But stay—­

(Goes to the door and examines it.)

The royal boy,
Who murdered was by order of Boris—­

Shuisky.  But these are no new tidings.

Pushkin.  Wait a little;
Dimitry lives.

Shuisky.  So that’s it!  News indeed! 
Dimitry living!—­Really marvelous! 
And is that all?