[There is a slight somnolent pause, then softly, faintly the whir of the wheels of Fate and the Spin-wheel Song rise from the enchanted mug; meanwhile roses bubble over its sides, their long trailing sprays falling like a veil over the sleeping Princess.]
The Gardener.
[Catching a handful of sprays, crosses the hall, these lengthening in his progress, as if by miraculous growth from their root in the enchanted mug.] Little slip—whole forest—one hundred years! [Still holding the ends of the trailing sprays he falls down, asleep.]
The King and Queen.
[In their sleep.] Good-night, Moss-Rose! Good-night, everybody, one hundred years!
All.
[In their sleep.] Good-night—everybody—one hundred years!
[The Curtains now shut out the scene from our view, but if by any chance these are lifted again we see roses, always moss-roses, fountaining from the mug over the assemblage in their enchanted sleep.]