ld have come to Dmitri again but for treachery in his army.
He charged the enemy with the same fierceness as before, bore down all
before him, routed the cavalry, tore a great gap in the line of the
infantry, and would have swept the field had the main body of his army,
consisting of eight thousand Zaporogues, come to his aid.

At this vital moment this great body of cavalry, half the entire army,
wheeled and quit the field,--bribed, it is said, by Boris. Such a
defection, at such a moment, was fatal. The Russians rallied; the day
was lost; nothing but flight remained. Dmitri fled, hotly pursued, and
his horse suffering from a wound. He was saved by his devoted Cossack
infantry, four thousand in number, who stood to their guns and faced the
whole Muscovite army. They were killed to a man, but Dmitri
escaped,--favored, as we are told, by some of the opposing leaders, who
did not want to make Boris too powerful.

All was not lost while Dmitri remained at liberty. Lost armies could be
restored. He took refuge in Putivle, one of the towns which had
pronounced in his favor, and while his enemies, who proved half-hearted
in the cause of Boris, wasted their time in besieging a small fortress,
new adherents flocked to his banner. Boris was furious against his
generals, but his fury caused them to hate instead of to serve him. He
tried to get rid of Dmitri by poison, but his agents were discovered and
punished, and the attempt helped his rival more than a victory would
have done.

Dmitri wrote to Boris, declaring that Heaven had protected him against
this base attempt, and ironically promising to extend mercy towards him.
"Descend from the throne you have usurped, and seek in the solitude of
the cloister to reconcile yourself with Heaven. In that case I will
forget your crimes, and even assure you of my sovereign protection."

All this was bitter to the Russian Macbeth. The princely blood which he
had shed to gain the throne seemed to redden the air about him. The
ghost of his slain victim haunted him. His power, indeed, seemed as
great as ever. He was an autocrat still, the master of a splendid court,
the ruler over a vast empire. Yet he knew that they who came with
reverence and adulation into his presence hated him in their hearts, and
anguish must have smitten the usurper to the soul.

His sudden death seemed to indicate this. On the 13th of April, 1605,
after dining in state with some distinguished foreigners, illness