Seven years have elapsed.

The same scene.

Curtain discovers MAH PHRU seated on a high verandah. A clearance has been made in the surrounding trees to give a full view of the road beyond. She is watching, always watching. With her are two beautiful little boys.

“To-day, perhaps,” she murmurs. “Perhaps to-morrow; but without fail—one day.”

“Look!” she cries. “At last my lord returns!”

Coming up the jungle road, in view of the audience, are a bevy of horsemen.

MAH PHRU, wondering, descends to greet them. Enter U. RAI GYAN THOO. He is dressed all in white, which is Burmese mourning. MAH PHRU sinks back—she fears the worst. The old man reassures her. He tells her that MENG BENG has sent for his sons—that the Queen is dead, and there is no heir.

“Queen? What Queen?” demands MAH PHRU.

“The Queen of Burmah.”

So MAH PHRU learns for the first time that her lover is the ruler of the country, supreme master of and dictator to everyone.

Weeping, but not daring to disobey, she summons the children to her; then, sinking on her knees, entreats in moving and pathetic words to be permitted to go with them, in the lowest most menial capacity. U. RAI GYAN THOO refuses. There is no place for her in the greatness of the world yonder. “Even Kings forget,” he says. “It is the command of the supreme Lord of the Earth and of the Sky that she remain where she is.”

Then he orders his followers to make the necessary arrangements for the safe journey of their future king and his brother.

The children stand passive in their gay dress, but are bewildered and afraid.
MAH PHRU has risen to her feet. She appears as if turned to bronze—a model of restraint and dignity, blent with colour and beauty and infinite grace.