I am known here as the Count Moranzone,
Lord of a barren castle on a rock,
With a few acres of unkindly land
And six not thrifty servants. But I was one
Of Parma’s noblest princes; more than that,
I was your father’s friend.
[clasping his hand] Tell me of him.
You are the son of that great Duke Lorenzo,
He was the Prince of Parma, and the Duke
Of all the fair domains of Lombardy
Down to the gates of Florence; nay, Florence even
Was wont to pay him tribute —
Come to his death.
You will hear that soon enough. Being at war
—
O noble lion of war, that would not suffer
Injustice done in Italy!—he led
The very flower of chivalry against
That foul adulterous Lord of Rimini,
Giovanni Malatesta—whom God curse!
And was by him in treacherous ambush taken,
And like a villain, or a low-born knave,
Was by him on the public scaffold murdered.
[clutching his dagger] Doth Malatesta live?
No, he is dead.
Did you say dead? O too swift runner, Death,
Couldst thou not wait for me a little space, And I
had done thy bidding!
[clutching his wrist] Thou canst do it! The
man who sold thy father is alive.
Sold! was my father sold?
Ay! trafficked for,
Like a vile chattel, for a price betrayed,
Bartered and bargained for in privy market
By one whom he had held his perfect friend,
One he had trusted, one he had well loved,
One whom by ties of kindness he had bound —
And he lives
Who sold my father?
I will bring you to him.
So, Judas, thou art living! well, I will make
This world thy field of blood, so buy it straight-way,
For thou must hang there.
Judas said you, boy?
Yes, Judas in his treachery, but still
He was more wise than Judas was, and held
Those thirty silver pieces not enough.
What got he for my father’s blood?
