ide in the streets of Moscow, and men and women were so
reduced by it that cannibalism was alleged to be breaking out amongst
them.

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 Ivan the Terrible. He was said to be the living image
of the dead Tsar, save that he was swarthy and black-haired, like the
dowager Tsarina, and there were two warts on his face, such as it was
remembered had disfigured the countenance of the boy Demetrius.

Thus Basmanov, adding that he had dispatched a messenger into Lithuania
to obtain more precise confirmation of the story. That messenger--chosen
in consequence of something else that Basmanov had been told--was
Smirnoy Otrepiev.

The Tsar Boris sat back in his chair, his eyes on the gem encrusted
goblet, the stem of which his fingers were mechanically turning. There
was now no vestige of the smile on his round white face. It had grown
set and thoughtful.

"Find Princ