MOOR (ironically). My lord, the affairs of the ladies are next to those of state.
FIESCO. Without a doubt, and these especially. But for what purpose are these papers?
MOOR. To remove one plague by another. These powders the signora gave me, to mix one every day with your wife's chocolate.
FIESCO (starting). Gave thee?
MOOR. Donna Julia, Countess Imperiali.
FIESCO (snatching them from him eagerly). If thou liest, rascal, I'll hang thee up alive in irons at the weathercock of the Lorenzo tower, where the wind shall whirl thee nine times round with every blast. The powders?
MOOR (impatiently). I am to give your wife mixed with her chocolate.
Such were the orders of Donna Julia Imperiali.
FIESCO (enraged). Monster! monster! This lovely creature! Is there room for so much hell within a female bosom? And I forgot to thank thee, heavenly Providence, that has rendered it abortive—abortive through a greater devil. Wondrous are thy ways! (To the MOOR.) Swear to me to obey, and keep this secret.
MOOR. Very well. The latter I can afford—she paid me ready money.
FIESCO. This note invites me to her. I'll be with you, madam!—and find means to lure you hither, too. Now haste thee, with all thy speed, and call together the conspirators.