She wanted to kiss him for the last time, but durst not, for fear of waking him.
“Farewell!” she whispered very gently. “Noble Eros, beloved husband, farewell! I am unworthy of you. The Satyr’s kiss is still burning on my lips; my mouth is on fire from the juice of the grapes. Farewell . . . .! And if you can, forgive me!”
She went.
The night was sultry and heavy with thunder; the flowers, exhausted, hung their heads; the nightingale uttered a cry, and she thought it was an owl. Bats flitted about with flapping wings.
She walked with a firm step. She followed the brook to where it flowed into the valley. Yonder . . . . with the Satyr in their midst, danced the Bacchantes.
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” they cried out, rough and hoarse, and threw at her a bunch of grapes.
She hesitated a moment. . . . She raised her eyes. Through the gloomy night a single star glistened like a cold, proud eye.
“Sacred star!” said Psyche, “you who watched over me before, and now leave me for ever . . . . tell him that I am unworthy of him and beg him to forgive me!”
