“Psyche! Psyche!”
She started and stood still. The Bacchantes, the Satyr, fled.
Psyche hastened back; with her hand she wiped her contaminated, burning lips.
“. . . . Psyche!”
She ran to meet Eros, but when she saw him, godlike and beautiful as an image, spotlessly pure in the moonlight, with his noble countenance, his deep brown eyes full of love, she was so disgusted with herself that she fell at his feet in a swoon.
He lifted her up and laid her on the bed.
He watched while she slumbered.
The whole night he watched by her. . . .
And it seemed as if she were wandering in her mind. . . .
Her face glowed with fever, and ever and anon she wiped her lips.
Outside in the garden the flowers drooped in sorrow. The lark was silent, and the little angels sat together with their wings drawn in. The sky was ash-coloured and gloomy.
That night Psyche slept in Eros’ arms, and afar off the pipe allured her. . . .
She extracted herself from Eros’ embrace and got up. . . .
