dred, said'st thou? Genoa is in my power. Four hundred
crowns are thine----

MOOR (with an air of confidence). Eh, Fiesco? We two will pull the
state in pieces, and sweep away the laws as with a besom. You know not
how many hearty fellows I have among the garrison--lads that I can reckon
on as surely as on a trip to hell. Now I've so laid my plans that at
each gate we have among the guard at least six of our creatures, who will
be enough to overcome the others by persuasion or by wine. If you wish
to risk a blow to-night, you'll find the sentinels all drenched with
liquor.

FIESCO. Peace, fellow! Hitherto I have moved the vast machine alone;
shall I now, at the very goal, be put to shame by the greatest rascal
under the sun? Here's my hand upon it, fellow--whate'er the Count
remains indebted to thee, the Duke shall pay.

MOOR. And here, too, is a note from the Countess Imperiali. She
beckoned to me from her window, when I went up received me graciously,
and asked me ironically if the Countess of Lavagna had not been lately
troubled with the spleen. Does your grace, said I, inquire but for one
person?

FIESCO (having read the letter throws it aside). Well said. What answer
made she?

MOOR. She answered, that she still lamented the fate of the poor
bereaved widow--that she was willing to give her satisfaction, and meant
to forbid your grace's attentions.

FIESCO (with a sneer). Which of themselves may possibly cease sometime
before the day of judgment. Is that all thy business, Hassan?

MOOR (ironically). My lord, the affairs of the ladies are next to those
of state.

FIESCO. Without a doubt, and these especially. But for what purpose are
these papers?

MOOR. To remove one plague by another. These powders the signora gave
me, to mix one every day with your wife's chocolate.

FIESCO (starting). Gave thee?

MOOR. Donna Julia, Countess Imperiali.

FIESCO (snatching them from him eagerly). If thou liest, rascal, I'll
hang thee up alive in irons at the weathercock of the Lorenzo tower,
where the wind shall whirl thee nine times round with every blast. The
powders?

MOOR (impatiently). I am to give your wife mixed with her chocolate.
Such were the orders of Donna Julia Imperiali.

FIESCO (enraged). Monster! monster! This lovely creature! Is there
room for so much hell within a female bosom? And I forgot to thank thee,
heavenly Providence, that has rendered it abortive--abortive through a
greater devil. Wondr