ver 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! 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!

FIESC