(unmasking). And who now stands here to vindicate his honor, that yielded to a rival base enough to tyrannize over innocence.
FIESCO (embraces him with ardor). Noble youth! thanks to the sufferings of my consort, which have drawn forth the manly feelings of your soul; I admire your generous indignation – but I refuse your challenge.
BOURGOGNINO (stepping back). Does Fiesco tremble to encounter the first efforts of my sword?
FIESCO. No, Bourgognino! against a nation's power combined I would boldly venture, but not against you. The fire of your valor is endeared to me by a most lovely object – the will deserves a laurel, but the deed would be childish.
BOURGOGNINO (with emotion). Childish, Count! women can only weep at injuries. 'Tis for men to revenge them.
FIESCO. Uncommonly well said – but fight I will not.
BOURGOGNINO (turning upon him contemptuously). Count, I shall despise you.
FIESCO (with animation). By heaven, youth, that thou shalt never do – not even if virtue fall in value, shall I become a bankrupt. (Taking him by the hand, with a look of earnestness.) Did you ever feel for me – what shall I say – respect?
BOURGOGNINO. Had I not thought you were the first of men I should not have yielded to you.
FIESCO. Then, my friend, be not so forward to despise a man who once could merit your respect. It is not for the eye of the youthful artist to comprehend at once the master's vast design. Retire, Bourgognino, and take time to weigh the motives of Fiesco's conduct!
[Exit BOURGOGNINO, in silence.
Go! noble youth! if spirits such as thine break out in flames in thy country's cause, let the Dorias see that they stand fast!
FIESCO. – The MOOR entering with an appearance of timidity, and looking round cautiously.
FIESCO (fixing his eye on him sharply). What wouldst thou here? Who art thou?
MOOR (as above). A slave of the republic.
FIESCO (keeping his eye sharply upon him). Slavery is a wretched craft. What dost thou seek?
MOOR. Sir, I am an honest man.
FIESCO. Wear then that label on thy visage, it will not be superfluous – but what wouldst thou have?
MOOR (approaching him, FIESCO draws back). Sir, I am no villain.
FIESCO. 'Tis well thou hast told me that – and yet – 'tis not well either (impatiently). What dost thou seek?
MOOR (still approaching). Are you the Count Lavagna?
FIESCO (haughtily). The blind in Genoa know my steps – what wouldst thou with the Count?
MOOR (close to him). Be on your guard, Lavagna!
FIESCO (passing hastily to the other side). That, indeed, I am.
MOOR (again approaching). Evil designs are formed against you, Count.
FIESCO (retreating). That I perceive.
MOOR. Beware of Doria!
FIESCO (approaching him with an air of confidence). Perhaps my suspicions have wronged thee, my friend – Doria is indeed the name I dread.
MOOR. Avoid the man, then. Can you read?
FIESCO. A curious question! Thou hast known, it seems, many of our cavaliers. What writing hast thou?
MOOR. Your name is amongst other condemned sinners. (Presents a paper, and draws close to FIESCO, who is standing before a looking-glass and glancing over the paper – the MOOR steals round him, draws a dagger, and is going to stab.)
FIESCO (turning round dexterously, and seizing the MOOR'S arm.) Stop, scoundrel! (Wrests the dagger from him.)
MOOR (stamps in a frantic manner). Damnation! Your pardon – sire!
FIESCO (seizing him, calls with a loud voice). Stephano! Drullo! Antonio! (holding the MOOR by the throat.) Stay, my friend! – what hellish villany! (Servants enter.) Stay, and answer – thou hast performed thy task like a bungler. Who pays thy wages?
MOOR (after several fruitless attempts to escape). You cannot hang me higher than the gallows are —
FIESCO. No – be comforted – not on the horns of the moon, but higher than ever yet were gallows – yet hold! Thy scheme was too politic to be of thy own contrivance speak, fellow! who hired thee?
MOOR. Think me a rascal, sir, but not a fool.
FIESCO. What, is the scoundrel proud? Speak, sirrah! Who hired thee?
MOOR (aside). Shall I alone be called a fool? Who hired me? 'Twas but a hundred miserable sequins. Who hired me, did you ask? Prince Gianettino.
FIESCO (walking about in a passion). A hundred sequins? And is that all the value set upon Fiesco's head? Shame on thee, Prince of Genoa! Here, fellow (taking money from an escritoire), are a thousand for thee. Tell thy master he is a niggardly assassin. (MOOR looks at him with astonishment.) What dost thou gaze at? (MOOR takes up the money – lays it down – takes it up again, and looks at FIESCO with increased astonishment). What dost thou mean?
MOOR (throwing the money resolutely upon the table). Sir, that money I have not earned – I deserve it not.
FIESCO. Blockhead, thou hast deserved the gallows; but the offended elephant tramples on men not on worms. Were thy life worth but two words I would have thee hanged.
MOOR (bowing with an air of pleasure at his escape). Sir, you are too good —
FIESCO. Not towards thee! God forbid! No. I am amused to think my humor can make or unmake such a villain as thou, therefore dost thou go scot-free – understand me aright – I take thy failure as an omen of my future greatness – 'tis this thought that renders me indulgent, and preserves thy life.
MOOR (in a tone of confidence). Count, your hand! honor for honor. If any man in this country has a throat too much – command me, and I'll cut it – gratis.
FIESCO. Obliging scoundrel! He would show his gratitude by cutting throats wholesale!
MOOR. Men like me, sir, receive no favor without acknowledgment. We know what honor is.
FIESCO. The honor of cut-throats?
MOOR. Which is, perhaps, more to be relied on than that of your men of character. They break their oaths made in the name of God. We keep ours pledged to the devil.
FIESCO. Thou art an amusing villain.
MOOR. I rejoice to meet your approbation. Try me; you will find in me a man who is a thorough master of his profession. Examine me; I can show my testimonials of villany from every guild of rogues – from the lowest to the highest.
FIESCO. Indeed! (seating himself.) There are laws and systems then even among thieves. What canst thou tell me of the lowest class?
MOOR. Oh, sir, they are petty villains, mere pick-pockets. They are a miserable set. Their trade never produces a man of genius; 'tis confined to the whip and workhouse
