There was now no vestige of the smile on his round white
face. It had grown set and thoughtful.
"Find Prince Shuiski," he said presently, "and send him to me
here."
Upon the tale the boyar had brought him he offered now no
comment.
"We will talk of this again, Basmanov," was all he said in
acknowledgment that he had heard, and in dismissal.
But when the boyar had gone, Boris Godunov heaved himself to his
feet, and strode over to the fire, his great head sunk between
his massive shoulders. He was a short, thick-set, bow-legged man,
inclining to corpulence. He set a foot, shod in red leather
reversed with ermine, upon an andiron, and, leaning an elbow on
the carved overmantel, rested his brow against his hand. His eyes
stared into the very heart of the fire, as if they beheld there
the pageant of the past, upon which his mind was bent.
Nineteen years were sped since Ivan the Terrible had passed away,
leaving two sons, Feodor Ivanovitch, who had succeeded him, and
the infant Demetrius. Feodor, a weakling who was almost imbecile,
had married Irene, the daughter of Boris Godunov, whereby it had
fallen out that Boris became the real ruler of Russia, the power
behind the throne.
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