Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Volume 5).djvu/43

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Right! Give it him; give it him, dear brother

[Pushing the Goldsmith away.] Hold your tongue get you behind me. I know you now;—you are Potamon the Manichæan!

A Manichæan? A stinking heretic! Faugh, faugh!

[Holding up his paper lantern.] Heyday! Why, you are Phocion the Dyer, of Antioch! The Cainite!

Woe is me, I have held communion with falsehood!

Woe is me, I have helped a son of Satan!

[Boxing his ear.] Take that for your help!

[Returning the blow.] Oh, you abandoned hound

Accursed, accursed be ye both!

[A general fight; laughter and derision among the onlookers.