Suddenly in their midst, wild, pale with rage,
Judas Bityagovsky.  “There, there’s the villain!”
Shout on all sides the crowd, and in a trice
He was no more.  Straightway the people rushed
On the three fleeing murderers; they seized
The hiding miscreants and led them up
To the child’s corpse yet warm; when lo!  A marvel—­
The dead child all at once began to tremble! 
“Confess!” the people thundered; and in terror
Beneath the axe the villains did confess—­
And named Boris.

Gregory.  How many summers lived
The murdered boy?

Pimen.  Seven summers; he would now
(Since then have passed ten years—­nay, more—­twelve years)
He would have been of equal age to thee,
And would have reigned; but God deemed otherwise. 
This is the lamentable tale wherewith
My chronicle doth end; since then I little
Have dipped in worldly business.  Brother Gregory,
Thou hast illumed thy mind by earnest study;
To thee I hand my task.  In hours exempt
From the soul’s exercise, do thou record,
Not subtly reasoning, all things whereto
Thou shalt in life be witness; war and peace,
The sway of kings, the holy miracles
Of saints, all prophecies and heavenly signs;—­
For me ’tis time to rest and quench my lamp.—­
But hark!  The matin bell.  Bless, Lord, Thy servants! 
Give me my crutch.

(Exit.)

Gregory.  Boris, Boris, before thee
All tremble; none dares even to remind thee
Of what befell the hapless child; meanwhile
Here in dark cell a hermit doth indite
Thy stern denunciation.  Thou wilt not
Escape the judgment even of this world,
As thou wilt not escape the doom of God.

FENCE OF THE MONASTERY*

This scene was omitted by Pushkin from the published version of the play.

Gregory and a Wicked Monk

Gregory.  O, what a weariness is our poor life,
What misery!  Day comes, day goes, and ever
Is seen, is heard one thing alone; one sees
Only black cassocks, only hears the bell. 
Yawning by day you wander, wander, nothing
To do; you doze; the whole night long till daylight
The poor monk lies awake; and when in sleep
You lose yourself, black dreams disturb the soul;
Glad that they sound the bell, that with a crutch
They rouse you.  No, I will not suffer it! 
I cannot!  Through this fence I’ll flee!  The world
Is great; my path is on the highways never
Thou’lt hear of me again.

Monk.  Truly your life
Is but a sorry one, ye dissolute,
Wicked young monks!

Gregory.  Would that the Khan again
Would come upon us, or Lithuania rise
Once more in insurrection.  Good!  I would then
Cross swords with them!  Or what if the tsarevich
Should suddenly arise from out the grave,
Should cry, “Where are ye, children, faithful servants? 
Help me against Boris, against my murderer! 
Seize my foe, lead him to me!”