Monk.  Enough, my friend,
Of empty babble.  We cannot raise the dead. 
No, clearly it was fated otherwise
For the tsarevich—­ But hearken; if you wish
To do a thing, then do it.

Gregory.  What to do?

Monk.  If I were young as thou, if these grey hairs
Had not already streaked my beard—­ Dost take me?

Gregory.  Not I.

Monk.  Hearken; our folk are dull of brain,
Easy of faith, and glad to be amazed
By miracles and novelties.  The boyars
Remember Godunov as erst he was,
Peer to themselves; and even now the race
Of the old Varyags is loved by all.  Thy years
Match those of the tsarevich.  If thou hast
Cunning and hardihood—­ Dost take me now?

Gregory.  I take thee.

Monk.  Well, what say’st thou?

Gregory.  ’Tis resolved. 
I am Dimitry, I tsarevich!

Monk.  Give me
Thy hand, my bold young friend.  Thou shalt be tsar!

PALACE OF THE PATRIARCH

Patriarch, abbot of the Chudov Monastery

Patriarch.  And he has run away, Father Abbot?

Abbot.  He has run away, holy sovereign, now three days ago.

Patriarch.  Accursed rascal!  What is his origin?

Abbot.  Of the family of the Otrepievs, of the lower nobility of Galicia; in his youth he took the tonsure, no one knows where, lived at Suzdal, in the Ephimievsky monastery, departed from there, wandered to various convents, finally arrived at my Chudov fraternity; but I, seeing that he was still young and inexperienced, entrusted him at the outset to Father Pimen, an old man, kind and humble.  And he was very learned, read our chronicle, composed canons for the holy brethren; but, to be sure, instruction was not given to him from the Lord God—­

Patriarch.  Ah, those learned fellows!  What a thing to say, “I shall be tsar in Moscow.”  Ah, he is a vessel of the devil!  However, it is no use even to report to the tsar about this; why disquiet our father sovereign?  It will be enough to give information about his flight to the Secretary Smirnov or the Secretary Ephimiev.  What a heresy:  “I shall be tsar in Moscow!"...  Catch, catch the fawning villain, and send him to Solovetsky to perpetual penance.  But this—­is it not heresy, Father Abbot?

Abbot.  Heresy, holy Patriarch; downright heresy.

PALACE OF THE TSAR

Two Attendants

1St attendant.  Where is the sovereign?

2Nd attendant.  In his bed-chamber, Where he is closeted with some magician.

1St attendant.  Ay; that’s the kind of intercourse he loves;
Sorcerers, fortune-tellers, necromancers. 
Ever he seeks to dip into the future,
Just like some pretty girl.  Fain would I know
What ’tis he would foretell.