(Exit.)

BASMANOV. He is right.
Everywhere treason ripens; what shall I do?
Wait, that the rebels may deliver me
In bonds to the Otrepiev? Had I not better
Forestall the stormy onset of the flood,
Myself to--ah! But to forswear mine oath!
Dishonour to deserve from age to age!
The trust of my young sovereign to requite
With horrible betrayal! 'Tis a light thing
For a disgraced exile to meditate
Sedition and conspiracy; but I?
Is it for me, the favourite of my lord?--
But death--but power--the people's miseries...

(He ponders.)

Here! Who is there? (Whistles.) A horse here!
Sound the muster!




PUBLIC SQUARE IN MOSCOW

PUSHKIN enters, surrounded by the people

THE PEOPLE. The tsarevich a boyar hath sent to us.