Horace.
[Blankly.] I've no idea what you're driving at.
Fakrash.
Again thou liest! [As he is about to raise scimitar again Horace keeps Fakrash's right arm down.] From this very spot whereon we stand thou canst behold such signs. [Pointing with left hand through the open windows.] Tell me, what are yonder strongholds of blackened brick?
Horace.
[Mystified.] Those? Oh, factories—works of sorts.
Fakrash.
[Pointing with scimitar.] And yonder strange and gigantic cylinders red as blood?
Horace.
[Pushing Fakrash's hand away.] Gasometers.