Horace.
To introduce me to that precious bride of yours, eh? I've told you already I'll have nothing to do with her.
Fakrash.
Thou canst not escape this bride—[he suddenly produces a huge scimitar and brandishes it]—for her name is—Death!
Horace.
Death! I say, you don't mean that! [As Fakrash advances on him with a sweep of the scimitar, which Horace ducks to avoid.] Yes, you do! [Backing below window.] By Gad! you're dangerous! Well, just tell me this—what on earth have I done to deserve death?
Fakrash.
I have brought thee hither—not to parley with thee, but to strike off thy head in the very place of thy perjuries.
Horace.
[Trying to keep cool.] I see. You seem to have forgotten that this is the very place where I let you out of that bottle.