shells. . . . And should the revolt still continue, we'll shower the city.
The revolt is over. All is quiet — the peace of death. The ground is strewn with bodies, the streets are soaked with blood. Fine ladies flit about. They lift their children and bid them kiss the mouth of the cannon, for the cannon have saved the rich from destruction. Prayers and hymns are offered up to the cannon, for they have saved the masters and punished the starvelings. And all is quiet, with the stillness of the graveyard where sleep the dead.
King-Hunger, with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, makes a desperate last appeal to his children.
King-Hunger. Oh, my son, my son! You clamored so loud — why are you mute? Oh, my daughter, my daughter, you hated so profoundly, so intensely, you most miserable on earth -arise. Arise from the dust! Rend the shadowy bonds of death! Arise! I conjure you in the name of Life!—You're silent?
For a brief moment all remains silent and immovable. Suddenly a sound is heard, distant at first, then nearer and nearer, till a thousand-throated roar breaks forth like thunder:
We shall yet come!
Woe unto the victorious!
