Vorotinsky.  A month has flown already
Since, cloistered with his sister, he forsook
The world’s affairs.  None hitherto hath shaken
His purpose, not the patriarch, not the boyars
His counselors; their tears, their prayers he heeds not;
Deaf is he to the wail of Moscow, deaf
To the Great Council’s voice; vainly they urged
The sorrowful nun-queen to consecrate
Boris to sovereignty; firm was his sister,
Inexorable as he; methinks Boris
Inspired her with this spirit.  What if our ruler
Be sick in very deed of cares of state
And hath no strength to mount the throne?  What
Say’st thou?

Shuisky.  I say that in that case the blood in vain
Flowed of the young tsarevich, that Dimitry
Might just as well be living.

Vorotinsky.  Fearful crime! 
Is it beyond all doubt Boris contrived
The young boy’s murder?

Shuisky.  Who besides?  Who else
Bribed Chepchugov in vain?  Who sent in secret
The brothers Bityagovsky with Kachalov? 
Myself was sent to Uglich, there to probe
This matter on the spot; fresh traces there
I found; the whole town bore witness to the crime;
With one accord the burghers all affirmed it;
And with a single word, when I returned,
I could have proved the secret villain’s guilt.

Vorotinsky.  Why didst thou then not crush him?

Shuisky.  At the time,
I do confess, his unexpected calmness,
His shamelessness, dismayed me.  Honestly
He looked me in the eyes; he questioned me
Closely, and I repeated to his face
The foolish tale himself had whispered to me.

Vorotinsky.  An ugly business, prince.

Shuisky.  What could I do? 
Declare all to Feodor?  But the tsar
Saw all things with the eyes of Godunov. 
Heard all things with the ears of Godunov;
Grant even that I might have fully proved it,
Boris would have denied it there and then,
And I should have been haled away to prison,
And in good time—­like mine own uncle—­strangled
Within the silence of some deaf-walled dungeon. 
I boast not when I say that, given occasion,
No penalty affrights me.  I am no coward,
But also am no fool, and do not choose
Of my free will to walk into a halter.

Vorotinsky.  Monstrous misdeed!  Listen; I warrant you
Remorse already gnaws the murderer;
Be sure the blood of that same innocent child
Will hinder him from mounting to the throne.

Shuisky.  That will not baulk him; Boris is not so timid! 
What honour for ourselves, ay, for all Russia! 
A slave of yesterday, a Tartar, son
By marriage of Maliuta, of a hangman,
Himself in soul a hangman, he to wear
The crown and robe of Monomakh!—­

Vorotinsky.  You are right;
He is of lowly birth; we twain can boast
A nobler lineage.