FIESCO. I understand thee—go on——
MOOR. Then come the conspirators, villains that deal in poison, and bravoes that rush upon their victims from some secret covert. Cowards they often are, but yet fellows that sell their souls to the devil as the fees of their apprenticeship. The hand of justice binds their limbs to the rack or plants their cunning heads on spikes—this is the third class.
FIESCO. But tell me! When comes thy own?
MOOR. Patience, my lord—that is the very point I'm coming to—I have already passed through all the stages that I mentioned: my genius soon soared above their limits. 'Twas but last night I performed my masterpiece in the third; this evening I attempted the fourth, and proved myself a bungler.
FIESCO. And how do you describe that class?
MOOR (with energy). They are men who seek their prey within four walls, cutting their way through every danger. They strike at once, and, by their first salute, save him whom they approach the trouble of returning thanks for a second. Between ourselves they are called the express couriers of hell: and when Beelzebub is hungry they want but a wink, and he gets his mutton warm.
FIESCO. Thou art an hardened villain—such a tool I want. Give me thy hand—thou shalt serve me.
MOOR. Jest or earnest?
FIESCO. In full earnest—and I'll pay thee yearly a 'thousand sequins.
MOOR. Done, Lavagna! I am yours. Away with common business—employ me in whate'er you will. I'll be your setter or your bloodhound—your fox, your viper—your pimp, or executioner. I'm prepared for all commissions —except honest ones; in those I am as stupid as a block.