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! 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 (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.