TUR. (_angrily_.) Death--death will be your well-deserved lot.

PANT.

Keep silence in the court! Ahem! ahem!

(_aside_) Now for some crackjaw, mystic apophthegm.

TUR. (_rises and declaims_)--

What is that thing, held cheap as dust, Yet honor'd by the Emperor's hand?

'Tis made to pierce, with sword's keen thrust, But sheds no blood, tho' wounds like sand, In number deep inflicts; robs none; Enriches thousands; rules the earth; Makes life with ease and smoothness run; Has founded kingdoms; ended dearth; Most ancient cities it has built, But ne'er caused war, nor war's sad guilt.

Answer my question (_unveils_). Look me in the face, Avow you're vanquished and deserve disgrace.

KAL. (_gazes on her with rapture._)

Refulgent loveliness! Ecstatic bliss!

PANT, (_shaking him._)

Collect your senses! Don't take on like this!

ALT.

Alas, I fear his intellect is puzzled; He's mute,--his tongue seems tied,--his lips tight muzzled.

PANT.

Were't not for dignity, into the kitchen, I'd rush a gla.s.s of something short to fetch 'un.

TUR. (_who has returned_ KALAF'S. _fixed gaze_)--

Unhappy wretch! thou'rt silent; thou must die.

KAL. (_recovers himself, and bows to_ TURANDOT _with extreme composure_)--

'Twas but your beauty dazed my wondering eye.

My mind can grasp the meaning of the Sphinx, Tho' it's as puzzling as the "Babe of Ginx."

The iron thing which wounds yet sheds no blood; That rules the earth, and gives man wealth and food; On which each year the Khan doth place his hand, To typify his reign o'er China's land; In short, the instrument your riddle mentions Is one of mankind's earliest inventions.

If I mistake not, Hm--ha--Let me see!

"_The plough_" is meant by Riddle Number three.

DOCTORS (_having opened the papers_).

_Eureka! Optime! Optissimo!_

(_Flourish of gongs and cymbals._)

PANT.

I kiss our future Emperor's great toe!

TART.

Th-the S-sp-sphinx is v-van-qui-quished--_Vinto e il Demonio!_ Sh-she's f-fou-found her m-ma-match. _Evviva il matrimonio!_

(TURANDOT _faints_, ADELMA _and_ SKIRINA _support her_. ALTOUM _leaning on_ PANT. _and_ TART. _descends his throne, and embraces_ KALAF. _The_ DOCTORS _quit their seats, and retire to the background_.)

ALT.

Sweet prince, our son-in-law thou'lt be to-morrow, A joyful climax to our royal sorrow.

TUR. (_recovers her senses, and rashes wildly between_ ALTOUM _and_ KALAF)--

Oh, make me not his slave! 'Twill drive me mad, My mind no time for due reflection had.

Too easily his triumph was obtained.

ALT.

The hard-won victory he fairly gained.

With grat.i.tude become this good youth's wife, Obey the law, and end this weary strife.

TUR.

Once more call the divan--renew the contest, If I have time for thought, I'm sure of conquest.

PANT.

Fair Princess Tigerheart, that's _rather_ cool; Don't make his Majesty act like a fool.

D'you think the royal head of your kind Daddy Is lined with lead, like a j.a.pan tea-caddy; What say you, colleague; and ye Doctors wise?

(_Doctors join hands in a circle, nodding their chins._)