Alone, save for the ministering pages, sat Boris Godunov under
the iron lamps that made of the table, with its white napery and
vessels of gold and silver plate, an island of light in the gloom
of that vast apartment. The air was fragrant with the scent of
burning pine, for although the time of year was May, the nights
were chill, and a great log-fire was blazing on the distant
hearth. To him, as he sat there, came his trusted Basmanov with
those tidings which startled him at first, seeming to herald that
at last the sword of Nemesis was swung above his sinful head.

Basmanov, a flush tinting the prominent cheek-bones of his sallow
face, an excited glitter in his long eyes, began by ordering the
pages out of earshot, then leaning forward quickly muttered forth
his news.

At the first words of it, the Tsar's knife clashed into his
golden platter, and his short, powerful hands clutched the carved
arms of his great gilded chair. Quickly he controlled himself,
and then as he continued to listen he was moved to scorn, and a
faint smile began to stir under his grizzled beard.

A man had appeared in Poland--such was the burden of Basmanov's
story--coming none knew exactly whence, who claimed to be
Demetrius, the son of Ivan Vassielivitch, and lawful Tsar of
Russia--Demetrius, who was believed to have died at Uglich ten
years ago, and whose remains lay buried in Moscow, in the Church
of St. Michael. This man had found shelter in Lithuania, in the
house of Prince Wisniowiecki, and thither the nobles of Poland
were now flocking to do him homage, acknowledging him the son of