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.

FIESCO. Fear not! I would not set the wolf to guard the lamb. Go thou
through Genoa to-morrow and sound the temper of the people. Narrowly