The Gardens of the Palace of the King.
Time: late afternoon.
Colonnades of roses stretch away on every side. Fountains play, throwing a shower on water-lilies of monstrous size. Peacocks walk with stately tread across the green turf. Only one, larger and more beautiful than the rest, is perched alone, with drooping head and folded tail, on the broad-pillared terrace that overhangs the sea. The scene is aglow with light and colour, yet holds a shadowed silence.
Enter some courtiers, who converse in perturbed fashion as they go towards the Palace.
Enter moung pho mhin and u. rai gyan thoo, accompanied by the Court Physicians and Astrologers.
“The King cannot live beyond the night,” the Physicians say. The sudden, mysterious illness that has attacked him defies their skill.
The Astrologers declare that the stars in their courses fight against his recovery; unless a miracle should happen, the new day will see him dead.
The Ministers regard each other in consternation; then walk the terrace with bent heads.
The peacock on the wall spreads its tail and utters a melancholy cry of poignant pain.