“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.
“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.