Kurbsky.  My father led the remnant of his life
On lands bestowed upon him by Batory;
There, in Volhynia, solitary and quiet,
Sought consolation for himself in studies;
But peaceful labour did not comfort him;
He ne’er forgot the home of his young days,
And to the end pined for it.

Pretender.  Hapless chieftain! 
How brightly shone the dawn of his resounding
And stormy life!  Glad am I, noble knight,
That now his blood is reconciled in thee
To his fatherland.  The faults of fathers must not
Be called to mind.  Peace to their grave.  Approach;
Give me thy hand!  Is it not strange?—­the son
Of Kurbsky to the throne is leading—­whom? 
Whom but Ivan’s own son?—­All favours me;
People and fate alike.—­Say, who art thou?

A Pole.  Sobansky, a free noble.

Pretender.  Praise and honour
Attend thee, child of liberty.  Give him
A third of his full pay beforehand.—­Who
Are these?  On them I recognise the dress
Of my own country.  These are ours.

KRUSHCHOV. (Bows low.) Yea, Sire,
Our father; we are thralls of thine, devoted
And persecuted; we have fled from Moscow,
Disgraced, to thee our tsar, and for thy sake
Are ready to lay down our lives; our corpses
Shall be for thee steps to the royal throne.

Pretender.  Take heart, innocent sufferers.  Only let me
Reach Moscow, and, once there, Boris shall settle
Some scores with me and you.  What news of Moscow?

KRUSHCHOV.  As yet all there is quiet.  But already
The folk have got to know that the tsarevich
Was saved; already everywhere is read
Thy proclamation.  All are waiting for thee. 
Not long ago Boris sent two boyars
To execution merely because in secret
They drank thy health.

Pretender.  O hapless, good boyars! 
But blood for blood!  And woe to Godunov! 
What do they say of him?

KRUSHCHOV.  He has withdrawn
Into his gloomy palace.  He is grim
And sombre.  Executions loom ahead. 
But sickness gnaws him.  Hardly hath he strength
To drag himself along, and—­it is thought—­
His last hour is already not far off.

Pretender.  A speedy death I wish him, as becomes
A great-souled foe to wish.  If not, then woe
To the miscreant!—­And whom doth he intend
To name as his successor?

KRUSHCHOV.  He shows not
His purposes, but it would seem he destines
Feodor, his young son, to be our tsar.

Pretender.  His reckonings, maybe, will yet prove wrong. 
Who art thou?

KARELA.  A Cossack; from the Don I am sent
To thee, from the free troops, from the brave hetmen
From upper and lower regions of the Cossacks,
To look upon thy bright and royal eyes,
And tender thee their homage.