MOOR. Then come the conspirators, villains that deal in poison, and bravoes that rush upon their victims from some secret covert. Cowards they often are, but yet fellows that sell their souls to the devil as the fees of their apprenticeship. The hand of justice binds their limbs to the rack or plants their cunning heads on spikes--this is the third class. FIESCO. But tell me! When comes thy own? MOOR. Patience, my lord--that is the very point I'm coming to--I have already passed through all the stages that I mentioned: my genius soon soared above their limits. 'Twas but last night I performed my masterpiece in the third; this evening I attempted the fourth, and proved myself a bungler. FIESCO. And how do you describe that class? MOOR (with energy). They are men who seek their prey within four walls, cutting their way through every danger. They strike at once, and, by their first salute, save him whom they approach the trouble of returning thanks for a second. Between ourselves they are called the express couriers of hell: and when Beelzebub is hungry they want but a wink, and he gets his mutton warm. FIESCO. Thou art an hardened villain--such a tool I want. Give me thy hand--thou shalt serve me. MOOR. Jest or earnest? FIESCO. In full earnest--and I'll pay thee yearly a 'thousand sequins. MOOR. Done, Lavagna! I am yours. Away with common business--employ me in whate'er you will. I'll be your setter or your bloodhound--your fox, your viper--your pimp, or executioner. I'm prepared for all commissions --except honest ones; in those I am as stupid as a block. FIESCO. Fear not! I would not set the wolf to guard the lamb. Go thou through Genoa to-morrow and sound the temper of the people. Narrowly inquire what they think of the government, and of the house of Doria-- what of me, my debaucheries, and romantic passion. Flood their brains with wine, until the sentiments of the heart flow over. Here's money-- lavish it among the manufacturers---- MOOR. Sir! FIESCO. Be not afraid--no honesty is in the case. Go, collect what help thou canst. To-morrow I will hear thy report. [Exit. MOOR (following). Rely on me. It is now four o'clock in the morning, by eight to-morrow you shall hear as much news as twice seventy spies can furnish. [Exit. SCENE X.--An apartment in the house of VERRINA. BERTHA on a couch, supporting her head on her hand-- VERRINA enters with a look of dejection. BERTHA (starts up frightened). Heavens! He is here! VERRINA (stops, looking at her with surprise). My daughter affrighted at her father! BERTHA. Fly! fly! or let me fly! Father, your sight is dreadful to me! VERRINA. Dreadful to my child!--my only child! BERTHA (looking at him mournfully). Oh! you must seek another. I am no more your daughter. VERRINA. What, does my tenderness distress you? BERTHA. It weighs me down to the earth.