"'How shall I amuse you, Tsar?' and putting his elbows on the table, he leant forward and looked directly into the eyes of his sovereign. 'It is not easy to find a fresh diversion for you; there have been so many jests in Russia since you began to reign. You rode your horse over the helpless in the streets once-upon-a-time; you have thrown your companions to dogs, you poured burning pitch over the heads of those who humbly petitioned you! But those were childish freaks. You soon tired of such simple cruelties. You began to imprison your nobles, in order to fill your rooms with their wives and daughters, but of this also you have tired. You next chose your most faithful servants for the torture; then you found it wearied you to mock the people and the nobles, so you began to scoff at the Church of God. You picked out the lowest rabble, decked them out as monks, and yourself became the abbot! In daylight you commit murders; at night sing psalms! Your favourite amusement, this! None had thought of it before. You are covered with blood, yet you chant and ring the holy bells and would like to perform the mass. What else shall I say to amuse you, Tsar? This: whilst you are masquerading thus with your opritchniks, wallowing in blood, Sigismund with his Poles will fall on you in the west, and from the east will come the Khan, and you will have left none alive to defend Moscow. The holy churches of God will be entered and burned by the infidel, all the holy relics will be taken: you,--you--the Tsar of all the Russias, will have to kneel at the feet of the Khan, and ask leave to kiss his stirrup!' Morozof ceased. None dared interrupt; all held their breath in agonising suspense. Ivan, pale, with flashing eyes, and foaming with rage, listened to all attentively, bent forward, as though fearing to lose a single word. Morozof gazed proudly around him. 'Do you want me to divert you further, Tsar? I will. One faithful subject, of high birth, still remained to you. You had not yet thought of killing him, because--perhaps--perhaps you feared the anger of God; and perhaps only because you could think of no torture or infamous death worthy of him. He lived in disgrace far from you; you exiled him; you might have forgotten him--but you never forget, do you, Tsar? You sent your cursed favourite, Viasemski, to burn his house and carry off his wife. When he came to you for redress for these wrongs, you sent him to combat for the right, in the hope that your young courtier would kill the old boyard. God did not allow you that joy, Tsar. He gave the other the victory. What did you do then, Tsar?' the bells on the cap tinkled as the old man's head shook with his emotion. 'Why, then you dishonoured him by an unheard-of outrage.