Speak not to him, There is a dreadful terror in his look. GUIDO [_laughing_] Nay, nay, I doubt not that he has come to tell That I am some great Lord of Italy, And we will have long days of joy together. Within the hour, dear Ascanio. [_Exit_ ASCANIO.] Now tell me of my father? [_Sits down on a stone seat_.] Stood he tall? I warrant he looked tall upon his horse. His hair was black? or perhaps a reddish gold, Like a red fire of gold? Was his voice low? The very bravest men have voices sometimes Full of low music; or a clarion was it That brake with terror all his enemies? Did he ride singly? or with many squires And valiant gentlemen to serve his state? For oftentimes methinks I feel my veins Beat with the blood of kings. Was he a king? MORANZONE Ay, of all men he was the kingliest. GUIDO [_proudly_] Then when you saw my noble father last He was set high above the heads of men? MORANZONE Ay, he was high above the heads of men, [_Walks over to_ GUIDO _and puts his hand upon his shoulder_.] On a red scaffold, with a butcher’s block Set for his neck. GUIDO [_leaping up_] What dreadful man art thou, That like a raven, or the midnight owl, Com’st with this awful message from the grave? MORANZONE I am known here as the Count Moranzone, Lord of a barren castle on a rock, With a few acres of unkindly land And six not thrifty servants. But I was one Of Parma’s noblest princes; more than that, I was your father’s friend. GUIDO [_clasping his hand_] Tell me of him. MORANZONE You are the son of that great Duke Lorenzo, He was the Prince of Parma, and the Duke Of all the fair domains of Lombardy Down to the gates of Florence; nay, Florence even Was wont to pay him tribute— GUIDO Come to his death. MORANZONE You will hear that soon enough. Being at war— O noble lion of war, that would not suffer Injustice done in Italy!—he led The very flower of chivalry against That foul adulterous Lord of Rimini, Giovanni Malatesta—whom God curse! And was by him in treacherous ambush taken, And like a villain, or a low-born knave, Was by him on the public scaffold murdered. GUIDO [_clutching his dagger_] Doth Malatesta live? MORANZONE No, he is dead. GUIDO Did you say dead? O too swift runner, Death, Couldst thou not wait for me a little space, And I had done thy bidding! MORANZONE [_clutching his wrist_] Thou canst do it! The man who sold thy father is alive. GUIDO Sold! was my father sold? MORANZONE Ay! trafficked for, Like a vile chattel, for a price betrayed, Bartered and bargained for in privy market By one whom he had held his perfect friend, One he had trusted, one he had well loved, One whom by ties of kindness he had bound— GUIDO And he lives Who sold my father?