The jewel was observed; its sheen and worth Awakened curiosity and wonder. They set me free, and questioned me; yet still I could not call to memory a time I had not worn the jewel on my person. Now it so happened that three Boiars who Had fled from the resentment of their Czar Were on a visit to my lord at Sambor. They saw the trinket,--recognized it by Nine emeralds alternately inlaid With amethysts, to be the very cross Which Ivan Westislowsky at the font Hung on the neck of the Czar's youngest son. They scrutinized me closer, and were struck To find me marked with one of nature's freaks, For my right arm is shorter than my left. Now, being closely plied with questions, I Bethought me of a little psalter which I carried from the cloister when I fled. Within this book were certain words in Greek Inscribed there by the Igumen himself. What they imported was unknown to me, Being ignorant of the language. Well, the psalter Was sent for, brought, and the inscription read. It bore that Brother Wasili Philaret (Such was my cloister-name), who owned the book, Was Prince Demetrius, Ivan's youngest son, By Andrei, an honest Diak, saved By stealth in that red night of massacre. Proofs of the fact lay carefully preserved Within two convents, which were pointed out. On this the Boiars at my feet fell down, Won by the force of these resistless proofs, And hailed me as the offspring of their Czar. So from the yawning gulfs of black despair Fate raised me up to fortune's topmost heights. And now the mists cleared off, and all at once Memories on memories started into life In the remotest background of the past. And like some city's spires that gleam afar In golden sunshine when naught else is seen, So in my soul two images grew bright, The loftiest sun-peaks in the shadowy past. I saw myself escaping one dark night, And a red lurid flame light up the gloom Of midnight darkness as I looked behind me A memory 'twas of very earliest youth, For what preceded or came after it In the long distance utterly was lost. In solitary brightness there it stood A ghastly beacon-light on memory's waste. Yet I remembered how, in later years, One of my comrades called me, in his wrath Son of the Czar. I took it as a jest, And with a blow avenged it at the time. All this now flashed like lightning on my soul, And told with dazzling certainty that I Was the Czar's son, so long reputed dead. With this one word the clouds that had perplexed My strange and troubled life were cleared away. Nor merely by these signs, for such deceive; But in my soul, in my proud, throbbing heart I felt within me coursed the blood of kings; And sooner will I drain it drop by drop Than bate one jot my title to the crown.