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 He has withdrawn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