Perished, was buried - and will not rise again;

And dost thou wish to know what man I am?

Well, I will tell thee. I am - a poor monk.

Grown weary of monastic servitude,

I pondered 'neath the cowl my bold design,

Made ready for the world a miracle -

And from my cell at last fled to the Cossacks,

To their wild hovels; there I learned to handle

Both steeds and swords; I showed myself to you.

I called myself Dimitry, and deceived

The brainless Poles. What say'st thou, proud Marina?

Art thou content with my confession? Why

Dost thou keep silence?

MARINA. O shame! O woe is me!

(Silence.) PRETENDER. (Sotto voce.) O whither hath a fit of anger led me?

The happiness devised with so much labour

I have, perchance, destroyed for ever. Idiot,

What have I done? (Aloud.) I see thou art ashamed

Of love not princely; so pronounce on me

The fatal word; my fate is in thy hands.

Decide; I wait.

(Falls on his knees.) MARINA. Rise, poor pretender! Think'st thou

To please with genuflex on my vain heart,

As if I were a weak, confiding girl?

You err, my friend; prone at my feet I've seen

Knights and counts nobly born; but not for this

Did I reject their prayers, that a poor monk -

PRETENDER. (Rises.) Scorn not the young pretender; noble virtues

May lie perchance in him, virtues well worthy

Of Moscow's throne, even of thy priceless hand -

MARINA. Say of a shameful noose, insolent wretch!

PRETENDER. I am to blame; carried away by pride

I have deceived God and the kings - have lied

To the world; but it is not for thee, Marina,

To judge me; I am guiltless before thee.