Fakrash.
[Grimly.] Have no uneasiness—for thou shalt receive justice. [Horace retires to sofa on right, expecting to be rehabilitated.] Hear, O company, my words! I repent of my conduct in obeying the orders of yonder wretch—[pointing to Horace, who gasps in stupefaction]—who is seeking even now to deter me from showing kindness.
Horace.
Liar! Liar!
Fakrash.
Being desirous of escaping marriage with this damsel—[with a step towards Sylvia]—he commanded me to transform her father as ye see. And I, whom he had delivered from a bottle of brass, was compelled by gratitude to fulfil all his desires.
Horace.
[Going up to Fakrash furiously.] You infernal old scoundrel! [Fakrash smiles malignantly and stalks off to the right; Horace crosses to Sylvia.] You don't believe him, Sylvia? You can't!
Sylvia.
Don't speak to me! Don't come near me!