ZIBO. Past eight.
ZENT. How bitter cold it is!
ZIBO. Eight was the hour appointed.
ZENT. (shaking his head). 'Tis not all as it should be here.
ZIBO. Fiesco means to jest with us-----
ZEST. To-morrow will be the ducal election.--Zibo, all's not right here, depend upon it.
ZIBO. Hush! hush!
ZENT. The right wing of the palace is full of lights.
ZIBO. Do you hear nothing?
ZENT. A confused murmuring within--and-----
ZIBO. The sound of clattering arms-----
ZENT. Horrible! horrible!
ZIBO. A carriage--it stops at the gate!
SENTINELS AT THE GATE (calling out). Who goes there?
The former, four of the ASSERATO family.
ASSERATO (entering). A friend of Fiesco.
ZIBO. They are the four Asserati.
ZENT. Good evening, friends!
ASSERATO. We are going to the play.
ZIBO. A pleasant journey to you!
ASSERATO. Are you not going also?
ZENT. Walk on. We'll just take a breath of air first.
ASSERATO. 'Twill soon begin. Come!--(Going.)
ASSERATO. What can this mean?
ZENT. (laughing). To keep you from the palace
ASSERATO. Here's some mistake-----
ZIBO. That's plain enough.--(Music is heard in the right wing.)
ASSERATO. Do you hear the symphony? The comedy is going to begin.
ZENT. I think it has begun, and we are acting our parts as fools.
ZIBO. I'm not over warm--I'll return home.
ASSERATO. Arms here too?
ZIBO. Poh!--Mere play-house articles.
ZENT. Shall we stand waiting, like ghosts upon the banks