O. Thou art an amusing villain.

MOOR. I rejoice to meet your approbation. Try me; you will find in me a
man who is a thorough master of his profession. Examine me; I can show
my testimonials of villany from every guild of rogues--from the lowest to
the highest.

FIESCO. Indeed! (seating himself.) There are laws and systems then even
among thieves. What canst thou tell me of the lowest class?

MOOR. Oh, sir, they are petty villains, mere pick-pockets. They are a
miserable set. Their trade never produces a man of genius; 'tis confined
to the whip and workhouse--and at most can lead but to the gallows.

FIESCO. A charming prospect! I should like to hear something of a
superior class.

MOOR. The next are spies and informers--tools of importance to the
great, who from their secret information derive their own supposed
omniscience. These villains insinuate themselves into the souls of men
like leeches; they draw poison from the heart, and spit it forth against
the very source from whence it came.

FIESCO. I understand thee--go on----

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'e