FIESCO. I will order my carriage.
MASK. That is useless--I shall send one horse: we want no more, for only one of us, I hope, will return.
FIESCO (with surprise). What say you?
MASK. A b.l.o.o.d.y answer will be demanded of you, touching a certain tear.
FIESCO. What tear?
MASK. A tear shed by the Countess of Lavagna. I am acquainted with that lady, and demand to know how she has merited to be sacrificed to a worthless woman?
FIESCO. I understand you now; but let me ask who "tis that offers so strange a challenge?
MASK. It is the same that once adored the lady Zibo, and yielded her to Fiesco.
FIESCO. Scipio Bourgognino!
BOURGOGNINO (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). n.o.ble 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! n.o.ble youth! if spirits such as thine break out in flames in thy country"s cause, let the Dorias see that they stand fast!
SCENE IX.
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 (pa.s.sing 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-gla.s.s 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). d.a.m.nation! Your pardon--sire!
FIESCO (seizing him, calls with a loud voice). Stephano! Drullo!
Antonio! (holding the MOOR by the throat.) Stay, my friend!--what h.e.l.lish 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?