Horace.
[Falling back in his chair in sudden terror.] His—silence! You—you old devil! You—you've not—killed him!
Fakrash.
Nay, nay, I have not so much as harmed a hair of his head.
Horace.
[Rising.] Phew! What a fright you gave me! [Moving towards fireplace, then turning.] But you've been up to some devilry or other—I'm sure of it. What have you done to him? Out with it!
Fakrash.
[Going up towards door.] It was necessary for my security to—[at door]—transform him into a one-eyed mule.
Horace.
[Petrified with horror.] A one-eyed what!