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. In January of 1605 the armies met at Dobrinichi, and Demetrius suffered a severe defeat, which compelled him to fall back on Putioli. He lost all his infantry, and every Russian taken in arms on the pretender’s side was remorselessly hanged as Boris had directed. Hope began to revive in the heart of Boris; but as months passed and no decision came, those hopes faded again, and the canker of the past gnawed at his vitals and sapped his strength. And then there was ever present to his mind the nightmare riddle of the pretender’s identity. At last, one evening in April, he sent for Smirnoy Otrepiev to question him again concerning that nephew of his. Otrepiev came in fear this time. It is not good to be the uncle of a man who is giving so much trouble to a great prince. 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.” 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.