I choke!—­let me get my breath! 
I felt it; all my blood surged to my face,
And heavily fell back.—­So that is why
For thirteen years together I have dreamed
Ever about the murdered child.  Yes, yes—­
’Tis that!—­now I perceive.  But who is he,
My terrible antagonist?  Who is it
Opposeth me?  An empty name, a shadow. 
Can it be a shade shall tear from me the purple,
A sound deprive my children of succession? 
Fool that I was!  Of what was I afraid? 
Blow on this phantom—­and it is no more. 
So, I am fast resolved; I’ll show no sign
Of fear, but nothing must be held in scorn. 
Ah!  Heavy art thou, crown of Monomakh!

CRACOW.  HOUSE OF VISHNEVETSKY

The pretender and a Catholic priest

Pretender.  Nay, father, there will be no trouble.  I know
The spirit of my people; piety
Does not run wild in them, their tsar’s example
To them is sacred.  Furthermore, the people
Are always tolerant.  I warrant you,
Before two years my people all, and all
The Eastern Church, will recognise the power
Of Peter’s Vicar.

Priest. May Saint Ignatius aid thee
When other times shall come.  Meanwhile, tsarevich,
Hide in thy soul the seed of heavenly blessing;
Religious duty bids us oft dissemble
Before the blabbing world; the people judge
Thy words, thy deeds; God only sees thy motives.

Pretender.  Amen.  Who’s there?

(Enter a Servant.)

Say that we will receive them.

(The doors are opened; a crowd of Russians and Poles enters.)

Comrades!  Tomorrow we depart from Cracow. 
Mnishek, with thee for three days in Sambor
I’ll stay.  I know thy hospitable castle
Both shines in splendid stateliness, and glories
In its young mistress; There I hope to see
Charming Marina.  And ye, my friends, ye, Russia
And Lithuania, ye who have upraised
Fraternal banners against a common foe,
Against mine enemy, yon crafty villain. 
Ye sons of Slavs, speedily will I lead
Your dread battalions to the longed-for conflict. 
But soft!  Methinks among you I descry
New faces.

Gabriel P. They have come to beg for sword
And service with your Grace.

Pretender.  Welcome, my lads. 
You are friends to me.  But tell me, Pushkin, who
Is this fine fellow?

Pushkin.  Prince Kurbsky.

Pretender. (To Kurbsky.) A famous name! 
Art kinsman to the hero of Kazan?

Kurbsky.  His son.

Pretender.  Liveth he still?

Kurbsky.  Nay, he is dead.

Pretender.  A noble soul!  A man of war and counsel. 
But from the time when he appeared beneath
The ancient town Olgin with the Lithuanians,
Hardy avenger of his injuries,
Rumour hath held her tongue concerning him.