In a secluded part of the town stands the castle. In its most magnificent ballroom the rich and their lackeys--scientists, teachers and artists--are gathered. They tremble with fear at the ominous sounds outside. To silence the loud beat of their terror they command the musicians to strike up the liveliest tunes, and the guests whirl about in a mad dance. From time to time the door is forced open and someone drops exhausted to the floor. An artist rushes in, crying out that the art gallery is in flames. "Murillo is burning! Velasquez is burning! Giorgione is burning!" He is not in the least concerned with living values; he dwells in the past and he wildly bewails the dead weight of the past. One after another men rush in to report the burning of libraries, the breaking of statues, and the destruction of monuments. No one among the wealthy mob regrets the slaughter of human life. Panic-stricken the mighty fall from their thrones. The Starving, infuriated and vengeful, are marching on the masters! They must not see the craven fear of the huddled figures in the mansions,--the lights are turned off. But darkness is even more terrible to the frightened palace mob. In the madness of terror they begin to accuse and denounce each other. They feel as helpless as children before the approaching avalanche of vengeance. At this critical moment a man appears. He is small, dirty, and unwashed; he smells of cheap whisky and bad tobacco; he blows his nose with a red handkerchief and his manners are disgusting. He is the engineer. He looks calmly about him, presses a button, and the place is flooded with light. He brings the comforting news that the revolt is crushed. _Engineer._ On Sunny Hill we planted a line of immense machine guns of enormous power.... A few projectiles of a specially destructive power ... A public square filled with people ... Enough one or two such 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?