6

Semen,' he said, 'why does the Tsar put such confidence in this Otrépieff? How do we know that he isn't a spy of his nephew's?'

'Bad, very bad-uncle and nephew,' answered Semen; not to mention that, according to accounts, the impostor is well informed of everything that goes on in the Kremlin. But if the Tsar is weak, we at least must be active. This new-found Tsarévitch wouldn't leave my head on my shoulders if he ever got the chance of taking it off, and neither would his friends the Jesuits have much pity for the holy and orthodox Patriarch Job.'

'Semen,' he said, 'we

The Patriarch nodded. must lay our heads together; perhaps we may hatch some scheme to supplement the Tsar's weakness. But it's most extraordinary. I never knew him taken like this before. I wish it was

not our own people we had to deal with-better knaves than fools to fight against. But come, we must do what we can-without delay.'

XXI

In a large cowshed on the right bank of Dnieper, a few miles above Kieff, the heir-presumptive to the throne of the Tsars held a short council of war with the principal companions of his daring enterprise, amongst whom were the Palatine of Sandomir, Iwanicki, two Jesuit priests, one or two Polish nobles, and one or two Russians-boyars who had deserted Boris, and had come to pay their court or take their chance with a rising sun.

Here was Dmitri; yet what a change had a few short weeks and a new situation made in him! There, the confined and ceremonious air of courts and brocades had left on his dignified carriage the least possible suspicion of awkwardness and gêne. Here, in close jacket and military boots, sword on thigh, and the blood leaping in his veins, he looked a prince well worthy to gain and keep an imperial throne. So powerfully, indeed, did the sentiment of being in his element act on him that it made

a marked effect on his advisers; insensibly they abandoned the somewhat patronising tone in which they had hitherto addressed him, and succumbed to the influence of character and genius.

'Very good, gentlemen!' he exclaimed, rising from a tub on which he had been sitting. 'Then we cross the river to-morrow. Yes; speed, speed is the word! Come, now, let us go out and exhort our brave handful of warriors. The good cause will be a host in itself to us. It's the small compact number that always wins. Hold together, gentlemen, and before a month is out, Moscow's glittering cupolas will hail us as their deliverer.'

The door opened, and in the doorway appeared a grizzly, weather-beaten old Cossack, with an eye that twinkled with good humour, but which seemed to bore into the man on whom it fell like a gimlet.

6

'Korela, by St. Nicolas!' exclaimed Dmitri, springing forward. Why, now, now we shall carry everything before us! Why, Korela, when we fought together, who ever saw our backs? And have you brought some of your brave fellows with you?'

'Ay, ay, Dmitri !-Tsarévitch, I mean,' said the gratified veteran, with a kind of wink; 'we'll send the rascals helter-skelter. There's four thousand stout fellows outside, just arrived. We've been rusting in camp, but we couldn't stay at home below the Falls when there was iron clinking in the north. But I've something else for you, Hetman, a despatch from a friend of yours, and a prisoner.'

'A despatch and a prisoner?' Dmitri took the packet held out to him, and breaking it open, ran his eye over the contents. They were as follows

I send this by a safe hand. The prisoner is an old friend of ours; but suppose he says he is a Russian noble, one Kroustchof, why should you contradict him? It looks well to be recognised by stray nobles. I've given him details about things in Moscow; examine him publicly, and 'twill aid the cause. I shall be with you soon.

GRISHKA.

'Ready brain that you are,' thought Dmitri. 'Come on, gentlemen,' he said aloud; 'we'll examine the prisoner outside, in full view. I've no secrets from my gallant friends. Gentlemen,

H

let me present you the hetman Korela-braver comrade never breathed. Come.'

And they all left the shed.

Outside, the scene was inspiriting. There were assembled the fragmentary forces with which to conquer the millions of Russia. Drawn up in somewhat irregular order for the review, on one side appeared about fifteen hundred Polish knights; their brilliantly caparisoned horses, their bright armour, the tall plumes that nodded from their helmets, the huge wings that in many cases, aping real eagles, flapped from their shoulders, and even their heads, their shining lances and the jewels that sparkled on their dress and accoutrements,—all this, brightened by the ardour and excitement of novelty and hope, combined to fill every heart with martial enthusiasm. In the centre, some thousand Russians, mounted or on foot, with their strange flowing robes, bows and arrows, or antique armour, produced an effect more picturesque than reassuring. But on the right-joyful spectacle for a military eye-were massed the new arrivals, the men whose trade was war. There were the red trousers and rusty firelocks, the splendid