MORANZONE: Ay! Lives in. you.
Thou art the same in mould and lineament,
Carriage and form, and outward semblances;
I trust thou art in noble mind the same.

GUIDO: Oh, tell me of my father; I have lived But for this moment.

MORANZONE: We must be alone.

GUIDO: This is my dearest friend, who out of love
Has followed me to Padua; as two brothers,
There is no secret which we do not share.

MORANZONE: There is one secret which ye shall not share;
Bid him go hence.

GUIDO (To ASCANIO): Come back within the hour.
He does not know that nothing in this world
Can dim the perfect mirror of our love.
Within the hour come.

ASCANIO: Speak not to him,
There is a dreadful terror in his look.

GUIDO (laughing): Nay, nay, I doubt not that he has come to tell,
That I am some great Lord of Italy,
And we will have long days of joy together.
Within the hour, dear Ascanio.

Exit ASCANIO.

Now tell me of my father? (Sits down on a stone seat.) Stood he tall?
I warrant he looked tall upon his horse.
His hair was black? Or perhaps a reddish gold,
Like a red fire of gold? Was his voice low?
The very bravest men have voices sometimes
Full of low music; or a clarion was it
That brake with terror all his enemies?
Did he ride singly? Or with many squires
And valiant gentlemen to serve his taste?
For oftentimes methinks I feel my veins
Beat with the blood of kings. Was he a king?

MORANZONE: Ay, of all men he was the kingliest.

GUIDO (proudly): Then when you saw my noble father last
He was set high above the heads of men?

MORANZONE: Ay, he was high above the heads of men,

Walks over to GUIDO and puts his hand upon his shoulder.

On a red scaffold, with a butcher’s block
Set for his neck.

GUIDO (leaping up): What dreadful man art thou,
That like a raven, or the midnight owl,
Com’st with this awful message from the grave?

MORANZONE: 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.

GUIDO (clasping his hand): Tell me of him.

MORANZONE: You are the son of that great Duke Lorenzo,
Whose banner waved on many a well-fought field
Against the Saracen, and heretic Turk,
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 –

GUIDO: Come to his death.