FIESCO (keeping his eye sharply upon him). Slavery is a wretched craft. What dost thou seek?
MOOR. Sir, I am an honest man.
FIESCO. Wear then that label on thy visage, it will not be superfluous— but what wouldst thou have?
MOOR (approaching him, FIESCO draws back). Sir, I am no villain.
FIESCO. 'Tis well thou hast told me that—and yet—'tis not well either (impatiently). What dost thou seek?
MOOR (still approaching). Are you the Count Lavagna?
FIESCO (haughtily). The blind in Genoa know my steps—what wouldst thou with the Count?
MOOR (close to him). Be on your guard, Lavagna!
FIESCO (passing hastily to the other side). That, indeed, I am.
MOOR (again approaching). Evil designs are formed against you, Count.