PRETENDER. Listen! Perhaps

He's but exhausted by the loss of blood,

And will recover.

PUSHKIN. Nay, nay; he is dying.

PRETENDER. (Goes to his horse.)

My poor horse! - what to do? Take off the bridle,

And loose the girth. Let him at least die free.

(He unbridles and unsaddles the horse. Some Poles

enter.)

Good day to you, gentlemen! How is't I see not

Kurbsky among you? I did note today

How to the thick of the fight he clove his path;

Around the hero's sword, like swaying ears

Of corn, hosts thronged; but higher than all of them

His blade was brandished, and his terrible cry

Drowned all cries else. Where is my knight?

POLE. He fell

On the field of battle.

PRETENDER. Honour to the brave,

And peace be on his soul! How few unscathed

Are left us from the fight! Accursed Cossacks,

Traitors and miscreants, you, you it is

Have ruined us! Not even for three minutes

To keep the foe at bay! I'll teach the villains!

Every tenth man I'll hang. Brigands!

PUSHKIN. Whoe'er

Be guilty, all the same we were clean worsted,

Routed!

PRETENDER. But yet we nearly conquered. Just

When I had dealt with their front rank, the Germans

Repulsed us utterly. But they're fine fellows!

By God! Fine fellows! I love them for it. From them

I'll form an honourable troop.

PUSHKIN. And where