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 was shaken by the Tsar's manner, by the ferocity of his
mien. But he made answer: "Alas, Highness! I could not be
mistaken. I am sure."
Boris grunted, and moved his body irritably in his chair. His
terrible eyes watched Otrepiev mistrustfully. He had reached the
mental stage in which he mistrusted everything and everybody.
"You lie, you dog," he snarled savagely.
"Highness, I swear . . ."
"Lies!" Boris roared him down. "And here's the proof. Would
Sigismund of Poland have acknowledged him had he been what you
say? When I denounced him the unfrocked monk Grishka Otrepiev,
would not Sigismund have verified the statement had it been
true?"
"The brothers Nagoy, the uncles of the dead Demetrius . . ."
Otrepiev was beginning, when again Boris interrupted him.
"Their acknowledgment of him came after Sigismund's, after--long
after--my denunciation.
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