" He broke into oaths. "I say you lie.
Will you stand there and pelter with me, man? Will you wait until
the rack pulls you joint from joint before you speak the truth?"
"Highness!" cried Otrepiev, "I have served you faithfully these
years."
"The truth, man; as you hope for life," thundered the Tsar, "the
whole truth of this foul nephew of yours, if so be he is your
nephew."
And Otrepiev spoke the whole truth at last in his great dread.
"He is not my nephew."
"Not?" It was a roar of rage. "You dared lie to me?"
Otrepiev's knees were loosened by terror, and he went down upon
them before the irate Tsar.
"I did not lie--not altogether. I told you a half-truth,
Highness. His name is Grishka Otrepiev; it is the name by which
he always has been known, and he is an unfrocked monk, all as I
said, and the son of my brother's wife."
"Then . . . then . . ." Boris was bewildered. Suddenly he
understood. "And his father?"
"Was Stephen Bathory, King of Poland. Grishka Otrepiev is King
Stephen's natural son."
Boris seemed to fight for breath for a moment.
"This is true?" he asked, and himself answered the question. "Of
course it is true. It is the light at last . . . at last.
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