Fakrash.
Call them what thou wilt—they are prison-houses! All, all dungeons wherein my wretched brethren labour in torment till the Day of Doom! [Pacing towards the right.] And every city throughout the world is filled with such abominations! Therefore—[turning on him again]—before I slay thee, I demand that thou tell me the name of the potentate by whom these punishments are imposed.
Horace.
[Whose expression during the above speech shows that a way out is beginning to suggest itself; to himself.] If I can—if only I can! [As Fakrash again waves the scimitar.] All right! I'll try to tell you. [He seats himself on the edge of the table.] The—er—potentate has several names, but his most popular title is Progress.
Fakrash.
[Salaaming.] On whom be peace!
Horace.
By all means! Well, Progress has subdued the—er—unruly forces of Nature, and compelled them to labour for humanity.
Fakrash.
Then why didst thou conceal from me that I, too, am in danger of being seized and condemned to toil?