_The bed-chamber of the King_--_vast and shadowy_. _On heaped-up
cushions and covers of yellow and blue_, _under a pearl-sewn creamy
velvet baldaquin_, _embroidered with peacocks_, _lies_ MENG BENG,
_mortally stricken_; _his face bears the ashen pallor that only dark
skins know_. _The ministers_, _the servants_, _the courtiers_, _the
countless motley gathering of an Eastern Court are scattered in anxious
groups_, _watching_, _waiting_, _murmuring_. _Only the space near the
couch is clear_. _Without_, _the dawn breaks over the sea_, _and_,
_stealing through the opening_, _makes the great chamber flush till it
looks like porphyry_.
_The tolling of a deep gong and the voices of a myriad birds invade the
throbbing silence of the Palace_.
"He passes," _murmur the physicians_. _Everyone's gaze turns to the
dying man_.
"Yet his star is in the ascendant," _say the astrologers_. _The risen
sun touches him with its light like a caress_. _He opens his eyes_. _His
sons advance_. _They raise him high on his cushions and give a
restorative_. _The end has come_. _Suddenly he rallies slightly_.
_The doors at the far end are rudely opened_. _A woman_, _young and
lovely_, _advances_, _thrusting roughly aside the many hands stretched
out to bar her path_.
_She reaches the King_.
"I bring you life, Star of my Soul," _she cries_, "I bring you life,"
_and so saying_, _falls dead at his feet_.
_The Courtiers rush forward_.
_The King rises_.
_He stands erect_.
_The sun lies like a golden benediction over all_.
_Jewels glitter_.
_The whole world of birds sing_.
THE CURTAIN FALLS
Footnotes:
{4} One of the greatest feasts of the Buddhist year.
{6} Spire.
{32} Fairy.