Who’s there? 
Ah, ’tis the vestment—­so!  The holy tonsure—­
The hour has struck.  The tsar becomes a monk,
And the dark sepulchre will be my cell. 
Wait yet a little, my lord Patriarch,
I still am tsar.  Listen to me, boyars: 
To this my son I now commit the tsardom;
Do homage to Feodor.  Basmanov, thou,
And ye, my friends, on the grave’s brink I pray you
To serve my son with zeal and rectitude! 
As yet he is both young and uncorrupted. 
Swear ye?

Boyars.  We swear.

Tsar.  I am content.  Forgive me
Both my temptations and my sins, my wilful
And secret injuries.—­Now, holy father,
Approach thou; I am ready for the rite.

(The rite of the tonsure begins.  The women are
carried out swooning.)

A TENT

Basmanov leads in pushkin

Basmanov.  Here enter, and speak freely.  So to me
He sent thee.

Pushkin.  He doth offer thee his friendship
And the next place to his in the realm of Moscow.

Basmanov.  But even thus highly by Feodor am I
Already raised; the army I command;
For me he scorned nobility of rank
And the wrath of the boyars.  I have sworn to him
Allegiance.

Pushkin.  To the throne’s lawful successor
Allegiance thou hast sworn; but what if one
More lawful still be living?

Basmanov.  Listen, Pushkin: 
Enough of that; tell me no idle tales! 
I know the man.

Pushkin.  Russia and Lithuania
Have long acknowledged him to be Dimitry;
But, for the rest, I do not vouch for it. 
Perchance he is indeed the real Dimitry;
Perchance but a pretender; only this
I know, that soon or late the son of Boris
Will yield Moscow to him.

Basmanov.  So long as I
Stand by the youthful tsar, so long he will not
Forsake the throne.  We have enough of troops,
Thank God!  With victory I will inspire them. 
And whom will you against me send, the Cossack
Karel or Mnishek?  Are your numbers many? 
In all, eight thousand.

Pushkin.  You mistake; they will not
Amount even to that.  I say myself
Our army is mere trash, the Cossacks only
Rob villages, the Poles but brag and drink;
The Russians—­what shall I say?—­with you I’ll not
Dissemble; but, Basmanov, dost thou know
Wherein our strength lies?  Not in the army, no. 
Nor Polish aid, but in opinion—­yes,
In popular opinion.  Dost remember
The triumph of Dimitry, dost remember
His peaceful conquests, when, without a blow
The docile towns surrendered, and the mob
Bound the recalcitrant leaders?  Thou thyself
Saw’st it; was it of their free-will our troops
Fought with him?  And when did they so?  Boris