[Going nearer Sylvia.] Sylvia! It may be for the last time——!
Fakrash.
It is! Come! [He extends his right hand towards Horace, who is irresistibly drawn backwards to him.] For I will tarry no longer.
[He seizes his arm.
Horace.
[Making an ineffectual resistance.] Let me go, Fakrash! Where are you taking me to?
Fakrash.
[Seizes him round the waist.] To meet—[he soars up with Horace through the open window on the right, and the remainder of the sentence is continued outside in mid-air]—thy bride!
[The others go to window and gaze after them, pointing upwards.
Pringle.