This glorious sword--the dread of dark Kazan!
This good sword--servant of the tsars of Moscow!
Now will it revel in its feast of slaughter,
Serving the master of its hopes.

PRETENDER. (Moves quietly with bowed head.) How happy
Is he, how flushed with gladness and with glory
His stainless soul! Brave knight, I envy thee!
The son of Kurbsky, nurtured in exile,
Forgetting all the wrongs borne by thy father,
Redeeming his transgression in the grave,
Ready art thou for the son of great Ivan
To shed thy blood, to give the fatherland
Its lawful tsar. Righteous art thou; thy soul
Should flame with joy.

KURBSKY. And dost not thou likewise
Rejoice in spirit? There lies our Russia; she
Is thine, tsarevich! There thy people's hearts
Are waiting for thee, there thy Moscow waits,
Thy Kremlin, thy dominion.

PRETENDER. Russian blood,
O Kurbsky, first must flow! Thou for the tsar
Hast drawn the sword, thou art stainless; but I lead you
Against your brothers; I am summoning
Lithuania against Russia; I am showing
To foes the longed-for way to beauteous Moscow!
But let my sin fall not on me, but thee,
Boris, the regicide! Forward! Set on!