And turning aside Peter signed to the fools to resume their shouting. Ménshikoff with other nobles, all drunk, began to dance. The Tsarevitch continued to speak in a high-pitched voice. But his father, paying him no attention, was stamping, clapping and whistling to the dancers:—
“Tare-bare, rastobare!
White snow was falling,
Grey hares were running,
Hurry! hurry up!”
His face was that of a soldier, unrefined, the rugged face of him who wrote: “The enemy received such good treatment from us that only a few infants survived.”
Suddenly Prince Ménshikoff, breathless with dancing, stopped short before the Tsarevitch, his hands on his hips and on his lips an impertinent smile—a reflection of the Tsar’s.
“Tsarevitch,” he cried, pronouncing the word, so that it meant an insult, “Tsarevitch, why are you melancholy? Come, join our dance!”
Alexis grew pale and seized his sword, then bethought himself, and turned aside ejaculating:—
“Rapscallion!”