_Lor._ Most sure. _Bar._ And yet he seems All openness. _Lor._ And so he seemed not long Ago to Carmagnuola. _Bar._ The attainted And foreign traitor? _Lor._ Even so: when _he_, After the very night in which "the Ten" 290 (Joined with the Doge) decided his destruction, Met the great Duke at daybreak with a jest, Demanding whether he should augur him "The good day or good night?" his Doge-ship answered, "That he in truth had passed a night of vigil, In which" (he added with a gracious smile) "There often has been question about you."[76] 'Twas true; the question was the death resolved Of Carmagnuola, eight months ere he died; And the old Doge, who knew him doomed, smiled on him 300 With deadly cozenage, eight long months beforehand-- Eight months of such hypocrisy as is Learnt but in eighty years. Brave Carmagnuola Is dead; so is young Foscari and his brethren-- I never _smiled_ on _them_. _Bar._ Was Carmagnuola Your friend? _Lor._ He was the safeguard of the city. In early life its foe, but in his manhood, Its saviour first, then victim. _Bar._ Ah! that seems The penalty of saving cities. He Whom we now act against not only saved 310 Our own, but added others to her sway. _Lor._ The Romans (and we ape them) gave a crown To him who took a city: and they gave A crown to him who saved a citizen In battle: the rewards are equal. Now, If we should measure forth the cities taken By the Doge Foscari, with citizens Destroyed by him, or _through_ him, the account Were fearfully against him, although narrowed To private havoc, such as between him 320 And my dead father. _Bar._ Are you then thus fixed? _Lor._ Why, what should change me? _Bar._ That which changes me. But you, I know, are marble to retain A feud. But when all is accomplished, when The old man is deposed, his name degraded, His sons all dead, his family depressed, And you and yours triumphant, shall you sleep? _Lor._ More soundly. _Bar._ That's an error, and you'll find it Ere you sleep with your fathers. _Lor._ They sleep not In their accelerated graves, nor will 330 Till Foscari fills his. Each night I see them Stalk frowning round my couch, and, pointing towards The ducal palace, marshal me to vengeance. _Bar._ Fancy's distemperature! There is no passion More spectral or fantastical than Hate; Not even its opposite, Love, so peoples air With phantoms, as this madness of the heart. _Enter an Officer_.