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.
FIESCO. I'm glad of it. They turn the scale among the populace of
Genoa.
MOOR. What a scene it was! Zounds! I almost acquired a relish for benevolence. They caught me round the neck like madmen. The very girls seemed in love with my black visage, that's as ill-omened as the moon in an eclipse. Gold, thought I, is omnipotent: it makes even a Moor look fair.
FIESCO. That thought was better than the soil which gave it birth.
These words are favorable; but do they bespeak actions of equal import?
MOOR. Yes—as the murmuring of the distant thunder foretells the approaching storm. The people lay their heads together—they collect in parties—break off their talk whenever a stranger passes by. Throughout Genoa reigns a gloomy silence. This discontent hangs like a threatening tempest over the republic. Come, wind, then hail and lightning will burst forth.
FIESCO. Hush!—hark! What is that confused noise?
MOOR (going to the window). It is the tumult of the crowd returning from the senate-house.