As a king's son? Is it not so? Declare.

PRETENDER. (Proudly.) The phantom of the Terrible hath made me

His son; from out the sepulchre hath named me

Dimitry, hath stirred up the people round me,

And hath consigned Boris to be my victim.

I am tsarevich. Enough! 'Twere shame for me

To stoop before a haughty Polish dame.

Farewell for ever; the game of bloody war,

The wide cares of my destiny, will smother,

I hope, the pangs Of love. O, when the heat

Of shameful passion is o'erspent, how then

Shall I detest thee! Now I leave thee - ruin,

Or else a crown, awaits my head in Russia;

Whether I meet with death as fits a soldier

In honourable fight, or as a miscreant

Upon the public scaffold, thou shalt not

Be my companion, nor shalt share with me

My fate; but it may be thou shalt regret

The destiny thou hast refused.

MARINA. But what

If I expose beforehand thy bold fraud

To all men?

PRETENDER. Dost thou think I fear thee? Think'st thou

They will believe a Polish maiden more

Than Russia's own tsarevich? Know, proud lady,

That neither king, nor pope, nor nobles trouble

Whether my words be true, whether I be

Dimitry or another. What care they?

But I provide a pretext for revolt

And war; and this is all they need; and thee,

Rebellious one, believe me, they will force

To hold thy peace. Farewell.

MARINA. Tsarevich, stay!