ng remained
him but to arm and go forth to meet the impostor, who was advancing upon
Moscow with a great host of Poles and Cossacks.

He appraised the support of the Nagoys at its right value. They, too,
had been at Uglich, and had seen the dead boy, almost seen him slain.
Vengeance upon himself was their sole motive. But was it possible that
Sigismund of Poland was really deceived, as well as the Palatine of
Sandomir, whose daughter was betrothed to the adventurer, Prince Adam
Wisniowiecki, in whose house the false Demetrius had first made his
appearance, and all those Polish nobles who flocked to his banner? Or
were they, too, moved by some ulterior motive which he could not fathom?

That was the riddle that plagued Boris Godunov what time--in the winter
of 1604--he sent his armies to meet the invader. He sent them because,
crippled now by gout, even the satisfaction of leading them was denied
him. He was forced to stay at home in the gloomy apartments of the
Kremlin, fretted by care, with the ghosts of his evil past to keep him
company, and assure him that the hour of judgment was at hand.

With deepening rage he heard how town after town capitulated to the
adventurer, and mistrusting Basmanov, who was in command, he sent
Shuiski to replace him. In January of 1605 the armies met at Dobrinichi,
and Demetrius suffered a severe defeat, which compelled him to fall back
on Putioli. He lost all his infantry, and every Russian taken in arms on
the pretender's side was remorselessly hanged as Boris had directed.

Hope began to revive in the heart of Boris; but as months passed and
no decision came, those hopes faded again, and the canker of the past
gnawed at his vitals and sapped his strength. And then there was ever
present to his mind the nightmare riddle of the pretender's identity. At
last, one evening in April, he sent for Smirnoy Otrepiev to question him
again concerning that nephew of his. Otrepiev came in fear this time. It
is not good to be the uncle of a man who is giving so much trouble to a
great prince.

Boris glared at him from blood-injected eyes. His round, white face
was haggard, his cheeks sagged, and his fleshly body had lost all its
erstwhile firm vigour.

"I have sent for you to question you again," he said, "touching this
lewd nephew of yours, this Grishka Otrepiev, this unfrocked monk, who
claims to be Tsar of Muscovy. Are you sure, man, that you have made no
mistake--are you sure?"

Otrepiev