"Oh, that'll do!" I cried impatiently—that is, impatiently for a captive, dependent on the pleasure of another for his release. "That'll do. It's sharp enough for the purpose."
"Pardon me, no," he replied, lifting his eyes from the dagger to contemplate me for a moment. "It's not sharp enough for the purpose."
Something in the intonation of his voice drove out the last traces of the drug, and restored me instantly to the full use of my faculties, as drunken men are said to become sobered by a sudden shock.
"What are you going to do?" I cried.
As if there could be any doubt in the matter!
"Immortalise you by my art."
If he had said that he was going to take vengeance on a rival whom he hated I should have understood him, but this speech of his was unintelligible.
"What are you going to do, I ask?"
"I have told you: make a sacrifice on the altar of art."
"What on earth do you mean?" I cried, tugging at my bonds.