Prisoner.  The tsar rewarded
His services with honour and with gold. 
Basmanov in the council of the tsar
Now sits.

Pretender.  The army had more need of him. 
Well, how go things in Moscow?

Prisoner.  All is quiet,
Thank God.

Pretender.  Say, do they look for me?

Prisoner.  God knows;
They dare not talk too much there now.  Of some
The tongues have been cut off, of others even
The heads.  It is a fearsome state of things—­
Each day an execution.  All the prisons
Are crammed.  Wherever two or three forgather
In public places, instantly a spy
Worms himself in; the tsar himself examines
At leisure the denouncers.  It is just
Sheer misery; so silence is the best.

Pretender.  An enviable life for the tsar’s people! 
Well, how about the army?

Prisoner.  What of them? 
Clothed and full-fed they are content with all.

Pretender.  But is there much of it?

Prisoner.  God knows.

Pretender.  All told
Will there be thirty thousand?

Prisoner.  Yes; ’twill run
Even to fifty thousand.

(The Pretender reflects; those around him glance at one another.)

Pretender.  Well!  Of me
What say they in your camp?

Prisoner.  Your graciousness
They speak of; say that thou, Sire, (be not wrath),
Art a thief, but a fine fellow.

Pretender. (Laughing.) Even so
I’ll prove myself to them in deed.  My friends,
We will not wait for Shuisky; I wish you joy;
Tomorrow, battle.

(Exit.)

All.  Long life to Dimitry!

A Pole.  Tomorrow, battle!  They are fifty thousand,
And we scarce fifteen thousand.  He is mad!

Another.  That’s nothing, friend.  A single Pole can challenge
Five hundred Muscovites.

Prisoner.  Yes, thou mayst challenge! 
But when it comes to fighting, then, thou braggart,
Thou’lt run away.

Pole.  If thou hadst had a sword,
Insolent prisoner, then (pointing to his sword) with this I’ld soon
Have vanquished thee.

Prisoner.  A Russian can make shift
Without a sword; how like you this (shows his fist), you fool?

(The Pole looks at him haughtily and departs in
silence.  All laugh.)

A FOREST

Pretender and pushkin

(In the background lies a dying horse)

Pretender.  Ah, my poor horse!  How gallantly he charged
Today in the last battle, and when wounded,
How swiftly bore me.  My poor horse!