FIESCO. I understand you not. But what means that crape of mourning
around your arm? Can death have robbed Verrina of a friend, and Fiesco
not know the loss?

VERRINA. Mournful tales ill suit Fiesco's joyful feasts.

FIESCO. But if a friend--(pressing his hand warmly.) Friend of my soul!
For whom must we both mourn?

VRRRINA. Both! both! Oh, 'tis but too true we both should mourn--yet
not all sons lament their mother.

FIESCO. 'Tis long since your mother was mingled with the dust.

VERRINA (with an earnest look). I do remember me that Fiesco once called
me brother, because we both were sons of the same country!

FIESCO (jocosely). Oh, is it only that? You meant then but to jest?
The mourning dress is worn for Genoa! True, she lies indeed in her last
agonies. The thought is new and singular. Our cousin begins to be a
wit.

VERRINA. Fiesco! I spoke most seriously.

FIESCO. Certainly--certainly. A jest loses its point when he who makes
it is the first to laugh. But you! You looked like a mute at a funeral.
Who could have thought that the austere Verrina should in his old age
become such a wag!