It came at a time when
already there was enough to distract his mind; for although the
table before him was spread and equipped as became an emperor's,
the gaunt spectre of famine stalked outside 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.
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