FIESCO (seating himself). That is something. And what do they whisper
about my gayeties?

MOOR (fixing his eyes upon him). Hear me, Count of Lavagna! Genoa must
think highly of you. They can not imagine why a descendant of the first
family--with such talents and genius--full of spirit and popularity--
master of four millions--his veins enriched with princely blood--a
nobleman like Fiesco, whom, at the first call, all hearts would fly to
meet----

FIESCO (turns away contemptuously). To hear such things from such a
scoundrel!

MOOR. Many lamented that the chief of Genoa should slumber over the ruin
of his country. And many sneered. Most men condemned you. All bewailed
the state which thus had lost you. A Jesuit pretended to have smelt out
the fox that lay disguised in sheep's clothing.

FIESCO. One fox smells out another. What say they to my passion for the
Countess Imperiali?

MOOR. What I would rather be excused from repeating.

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----