Then he came to the spot where Psyche was wont to rest in the moss by the brook, in the shade of the shrubs.
“Who will tell me where Psyche is?” he exclaimed in despair, and threw himself on the moss and sobbed.
“Eros!” cried a weak voice.
“Who speaks there?”
“I, a white violet, which Psyche plucked. . . . Hear me quickly, for I feel I am dying, and my elfin voice is scarcely audible to your ear. Listen to me. . . . I am lying close to you. Take me in your hand. . . .”
Eros took the flower.
“Psyche has been enticed by the Satyr into the wood. The Bacchantes have taken her away. This was her last word: that she was unworthy of you, and went away praying for forgiveness. . . . She could not remain, she said; she went. . . .! Eros, forgive her!”
The flower shrivelled up in his hand. Eros rose and tottered; he too felt that he was dying.
Sad at heart walked Eros, and all along his path the flowers now lay shrivelled. The brook was dry. The lark lay dead before his feet. The cupids lay dead in the withered roses.
