Fakrash.
[Sullenly.] I will grant nothing more at thy request.
Horace.
I don't think you quite understand. I don't request—I command. On the head and on the eye!
Fakrash.
Thou art wasting breath. No longer am I under obligation to thee, O thou perfidious one!
Horace.
[Anxiously.] Why—what's come to you? [Coaxingly.] I say! Fakrash—old chappie. Don't play the goat now! You can't mean to leave me on the mat like this!
Fakrash.
[Glaring at him.] Canst thou not perceive how hateful thou hast become to me?