amsels!
I can no longer conceal it--hear me! I confide to you something
(mysteriously)--a thought!--when I stood at the altar with Fiesco,--when
his hand lay in mine,--a thought, too daring for woman, rushed across me.
"This Fiesco, whose hand now lies in thine--thy Fiesco"--but hush! let no
man hear us boast how far he excels all others of his sex. "This, thy
Fiesco"--ah, could you but share my feelings!--"will free Genoa from its
tyrants!"

ARABELLA (astonished). And could this dream haunt a woman's mind even at
the nuptial shrine?

LEONORA. Yes, my Arabella,--well mayest thou be astonished--to the bride
it came, even in the joy of the bridal hour (more animated). I am a
woman, but I feel the nobleness of my blood. I cannot bear to see these
proud Dorias thus overtop our family. The good old Andreas--it is a
pleasure to esteem him. He may indeed, unenvied, bear the ducal dignity;
but Gianettino is his nephew--his heir--and Gianettino has a proud and
wicked heart. Genoa trembles before him, and Fiesco (much affected)--
Fiesco--weep with me, damsels!--loves his sister.

ARABELLA.
Alas, my wretched mistress!

LEONORA. Go now, and see this demi-god of the Genoese--amid the
shameless circles of debauchery and lust! hear the vile jests and wanton
ribaldry with which he entertains his base companions! That is Fiesco!
Ah, damsels, not only has Genoa lost its hero, but I have lost my
husband!

ROSA. Speak lower! some one is coming through the gallery.

LEONORA (alarmed). Ha! 'Tis Fiesco--let us hasten away--the sight of me
might for a moment interrupt his happiness. (She hastens into a side
apartment; the maids follow.)

SCENE II

GIANETTINO DORIA, masked, in a green cloak, and the MOOR,
enter in conversation.

GIANETTINO. Thou hast understood me!

MOOR. Well----

GIANETTINO. The white mask----

MOOR. Well----

GIANETTINO. I say, the white mask----

MOOR. Well--well--well----

GIANETTINO. Dost thou mark me? Thou canst only fail here! (pointing to
his heart).

MOOR. Give yourself no concern.

GIANETTINO. And be sure to strike home----

MOOR. He shall have enough.

GIANETTINO (maliciously). That the poor count may not have long to
suffer.

MOOR. With your leave, sir, a word--at what weight do you estimate his
head?

GIANETTINO. What weight? A hundred sequins----

MOOR (blowing through his fingers). Poh! Light as a feather!

GIANETTINO. What art thou muttering?

MOOR. I was saying--i