FIESCO. Out with it—the bolder the more welcome. What are their murmurings?
MOOR. 'Tis not a murmur. At all the coffee-houses, billiard-tables, hotels, and public walks—in the market-place, at the Exchange, they proclaim aloud——
FIESCO. What? I command thee!
MOOR (retreating). That you are a fool!
FIESCO. Well, take this sequin for these tidings. Now have I put on a fool's cap that these Genoese may have wherewith to rack their wits. Next I will shave my head, that they may play Merry Andrew to my Clown. How did the manufacturers receive my presents?
MOOR (humorously). Why, Mr. Fool, they looked like poor knaves——
FIESCO. Fool? Fellow, art thou mad?
MOOR. Pardon! I had a mind for a few more sequins.
FIESCO (laughing, gives him another sequin). Well. "Like poor knaves."
MOOR. Who receive pardon at the very block. They are yours both soul and body.