Pushkin. (To himself.) Well, here’s
A great ado about a horse, when all
Our army’s smashed to bits.

Pretender.  Listen!  Perhaps
He’s but exhausted by the loss of blood,
And will recover.

Pushkin.  Nay, nay; he is dying.

Pretender. (Goes to his horse.)
My poor horse!—­what to do?  Take off the bridle,
And loose the girth.  Let him at least die free.

(He unbridles and unsaddles the horse.  Some Poles enter.)

Good day to you, gentlemen!  How is’t I see not
Kurbsky among you?  I did note today
How to the thick of the fight he clove his path;
Around the hero’s sword, like swaying ears
Of corn, hosts thronged; but higher than all of them
His blade was brandished, and his terrible cry
Drowned all cries else.  Where is my knight?

Pole.  He fell
On the field of battle.

Pretender.  Honour to the brave,
And peace be on his soul!  How few unscathed
Are left us from the fight!  Accursed Cossacks,
Traitors and miscreants, you, you it is
Have ruined us!  Not even for three minutes
To keep the foe at bay!  I’ll teach the villains! 
Every tenth man I’ll hang.  Brigands!

Pushkin.  Whoe’er
Be guilty, all the same we were clean worsted,
Routed!

Pretender.  But yet we nearly conquered.  Just
When I had dealt with their front rank, the Germans
Repulsed us utterly.  But they’re fine fellows! 
By God!  Fine fellows!  I love them for it.  From them
I’ll form an honourable troop.

Pushkin.  And where
Shall we now spend the night?

Pretender.  Why, here, in the forest. 
Why not this for our night quarters?  At daybreak
We’ll take the road, and dine in Rilsk.  Good night.

(He lies down, puts a saddle under his head, and falls asleep.)

Pushkin.  A pleasant sleep, tsarevich!  Smashed to bits,
Rescued by flight alone, he is as careless
As a simple child; ’tis clear that Providence
Protects him, and we, my friends, will not lose heart.

MOSCOW.  PALACE OF THE TSAR

BORIS.  BASMANOV

Tsar.  He is vanquished, but what profit lies in that? 
We are crowned with a vain conquest; he has mustered
Again his scattered forces, and anew
Threatens us from the ramparts of Putivl. 
Meanwhile what are our heroes doing?  They stand
At Krom, where from its rotten battlements
A band of Cossacks braves them.  There is glory! 
No, I am ill content with them; thyself
I shall despatch to take command of them;
I give authority not to birth, but brains. 
Their pride of precedence, let it be wounded! 
The time has come for me to hold in scorn
The murmur of distinguished nobodies,
And quash pernicious custom.