uld be
freed, Sacco will be hailed his country's savior. Let no one trick out
to me the threadbare tale of honesty, if the fate of empires hang on the
bankruptcy of a prodigal and the lust of a debauchee. By heaven, Sacco,
I admire the wise design of Providence, that in us would heal the
corruptions in the heart of the state by the vile ulcers on its limbs.
Is thy design unfolded to Verrina?

SACCO. As far as it can be unfolded to a patriot. Thou knowest his
iron integrity, which ever tends to that one point, his country. His
hawk-like eye is now fixed on Fiesco, and he has half-conceived a hope of
thee to join the bold conspiracy.

CALCAGNO. Oh, he has an excellent nose! Come, let us seek him, and fan
the flame of liberty in his breast by our accordant spirit.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

JULIA, agitated with anger, and FIESCO, in a white mask,
following her.

JULIA. Servants! footmen!

FIESCO. Countess, whither are you going? What do you intend?

JULIA. Nothing--nothing at all. (To the servants, who enter and
immediately retire.) Let my carriage draw up----

FIESCO. Pardon me, it must not. You are offended.

JULIA. Oh, by no means. Away--you tear my dress to pieces. Offended.
Who is here that can offend me? Go, pray go.

FIESCO (upon one knee). Not till you tell me what impertinent----

JULIA (stands still in a haughty attitude). Fine! Fine! Admirable!
Oh, that the Countess of Lavagna might be called to view this charming
scene! How, Count, is this like a husband? This posture would better
suit the chamber of your wife when she turns over the journal of your
caresses and finds a void in the account. Rise, sir, and seek those to
whom your overtures will prove more acceptable. Rise--unless you think
your gallantries will atone for your wife's impertinence.

FIESCO (jumping up). Impertinence! To you?

JULIA. To break up! To push away her chair! To turn her back upon the
table--that table, Count, where I was sitting----

FIESCO. 'Tis inexcusable.

JULIA. And is that all? Out upon the jade! Am I, then, to blame
because the Count makes use of his eyes? (Smilingly admiring herself.)

FIESCO. 'Tis the fault of your beauty, madam, that keeps them in such
sweet slavery.

JULIA. Away with compliment where honor is concerned. Count, I insist
on satisfaction. Where shall I find it, in you, or in my uncle's
vengeance?

FIESCO. Find it in the arms of love--of love that would re