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Long he stood there, and there he was found by the magnificent Prince Shuiski, whom he had bidden Basmanov to summon. "You went to Uglich when the Tsarevitch Demetrius was slain," said Boris. His voice and mien were calm and normal. "Yourself you saw the body. There is no possibility that you could have been mistaken in it?" "Mistaken?" The boyar was taken aback by the question.
"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 forced to stay at home in the gloomy apartments of the Kremlin, fretted by care, with the ghosts of his evil past to keep him company, and assure him that the hour of judgment was at hand. With deepening rage he heard how town after town capitulated to the adventurer, and mistrusting Basmanov, who was in command, he sent Shuiski to replace him.
Basmanov marched on Moscow, entered it in triumph, and again proclaimed Demetrius, whereupon the people rose in revolt against the son of the usurper Boris, stormed the Kremlin, and strangled the boy and his mother. Basil Shuiski would have shared their fate had he not bought his life at the price of betrayal.
He was a tall man, considerably younger than Boris, who was in his fiftieth year. His face was lean and saturnine, and there was something sinister in the dark, close-set eyes under a single, heavy line of eyebrow. Boris explained his question, telling him what he had learnt from Basmanov. Basil Shuiski laughed. The story was an absurd one. Demetrius was dead.
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