on one part of the stage.) Oh,
that I could stand upon the brink of the infernal gulf, and view below
all hell's variety of torments!--could hear the horrid shrieks of damned
souls! (Approaching the body, trembling.) Here lies my murdered wife.
Nay--that says too little--the wife that I myself have murdered. Oh!
'Tis the cunningest of hell's devices--first I was allured to the topmost
pinnacle of joy--to the very threshold of heaven--then--in an instant
hurled headlong down--and then--oh that my breath could send a pestilence
to hell! And then was made the murderer of my wife--fool that I was to
trust two erring eyes? Oh, fiends, this is your masterpiece of torture!
(All the CONSPIRATORS lean upon their swords much afflicted--a pause.)

FIESCO (exhausted, and looking mournfully round the circle). Yes, by
heavens! They who feared not to draw their swords against their prince
are shedding tears! (With dejection.) Speak! Do you weep over this
havoc caused by treacherous death, or do you bewail the fall of your
leader's spirit? (Turning toward the dead body in an affecting posture.)
Where iron-hearted warriors were melted into tears, Fiesco uttered only
imprecations of despair. (Kneels down, weeping, by her side.) Pardon
me, Leonora--the decrees of heaven are immutable; they yield not to
mortal anger. (With a melancholy tenderness.) O Leonora, years ago my
fancy painted that triumphant hour when I should present thee to Genoa as
her duchess--methought I saw the lovely blush that tinged thy modest
cheek--the timid heaving of thy beauteous bosom beneath the snowy gauze--
I heard the gentle murmurs of thy voice, which died away in rapture!
(More lively.) Ah, how intoxicating to my soul were the proud
acclamations of the people! How did my love rejoice to see its triumph
marked in the sinking envy of its rivals! Leonora! The hour which
should confirm these hopes is come. Thy Fiesco is Duke of Genoa--and yet
the meanest beggar would not exchange his poverty for my greatness and my
sufferings. (More affected.) He has a wife to share his troubles--with
whom can I share my splendor? (He weeps bitterly, and throws himself on
the dead body. Compassion marked upon the countenances of all.)

CALCAGNO. She was, indeed, a most excellent lady.

ZIBO. This event must be concealed from the people. 'Twould damp the
ardor of our party and elevate the enemy with hope.

FIESCO (rises, collected and firm). Here me, Genoese! Providence, if
ri