The pale sunbeams faded away, thick grey clouds came sweeping along, a shower of hail rattled down, flinging handfuls of icy-cold stones. . . .
She felt a touch on her shoulder. She looked up.
It was the Satyr who had allured her with his pipe, there, on that very spot.
“Psyche!” said he, “what are you doing here, so far away from all of us? Winter is coming, Psyche; listen to the whistling winds, feel the rattling hail; the last leaves are being blown away. We are going to the South, and Prince Bacchus is seeking for you. . . . What are you doing here, and why are you crouching down and weeping?
“We are having a feast and are fleeing the winter; come!”
“I feel no cold; I am burning. . . . Let me stay here, and weep, and die. . . .”
“Why should you die, O Psyche, Psyche, so pretty and so gay—Psyche, the prettiest and gayest, who can dance the maddest, who can dance out all the Bacchantes? Come! . . . .”
She laughed through her tears, a laugh like a piercing shriek.
“But Psyche, do you know what it is?”
