Chancellor. Nay, Sire——
Emperor. And so, there will be no war.
Officer. Sire, we beg——
Emperor. These are my commands.
(They have to go, chagrined, but deferential.)
Emperor. The decision lay with me, and I said there shall be peace. That be my zenith!
(He goes back to the chair; he sleeps peacefully; in the distance a bell tolls the Angelus, and suddenly this is broken by one boom of a great gun, which reverberates and should be startling. The Spirit of Culture returns, now with a wound in her breast; she surveys him sadly.)
Culture. Sleep on, unhappy King. (He grows restless.) Better to wake if even your dreams appal you.
(He wakes, and for a moment he scarcely understands that he has been dreaming; the realization is tragic to him.)
Emperor. You! You have come here to mock me!