[In extreme embarrassment.] I—I'd be only too happy to oblige you—if I could. But—well, the fact is, I've just parted with it.
Fakrash.
[Advancing on him in sudden fury.] Parted with it! With my seal! O thou of little sense! To whom? To whom, I say?
Horace.
To the father of the lady I was engaged to. He's a learned man, you see, and I knew, if there was anything engraved on the seal, he'd be able to make it out.
Fakrash.
[Striding up and down the hall, and brandishing his arms.] Perdition seize thee! For he will assuredly refuse to surrender such a talisman! Woe to me, for I am undone! Undone! Undone!
Horace.
Don't talk rot! You aren't undone—and nobody wants to undo you! [Fakrash utters wild cries.] Don't go howling about like that—sit down again and be sensible.
Fakrash.