Enter King Victor, bearing the regalia on a cushion, from his apartment. He calls loudly—
D'Ormea!—for patience fails me, treading thus
Among the obscure trains I have laid,—my knights
Safe in the hall here—in that anteroom,
My son,—D'Ormea, where? Of this, one touch— [Laying down the crown.
This fireball to these mute black cold trains—then
Outbreak enough!
[Contemplating it.] To lose all, after all!
This, glancing o'er my house for ages—shaped,
Brave meteor, like the crown of Cyprus now,