He is a small, wretched old man with red eyes, like those of a rabbit, and to-morrow death will mow him down.

Ha! He is dealing in diamonds, he throws them from one hand to the other like an old miser, and he himself is dying of hunger.

It is a fraud, Khorre, a fraud.

Let us shout loudly, Khorre, we are alone here." He shouts, turning to the thundering organ: "Eh, musician! Even a fly cannot rise on your wings, even the smallest fly cannot rise on your wings.

Eh, musician! Let me have your torn hat and I will throw a penny into it; your lie is worth no more.