The wind blew, the hail rattled down: winter was coming on.
. . . . “Eros is dead!” murmured Psyche, “Spring is past, the Present is withered, Emeralda reigns. . . . ‘What are you doing with things that are pretty, and have no use at all. . . . ?’
“If I cannot possibly get cool, if I keep burning deep within me . . . . it is better, perhaps, to renounce my princess’s rights, to go naked no longer, to have no wings. . . .”
“Tell me, Psyche, may I cut them off?”
“Yes, clip them! Cut them right off, my wings, which are only pretty!” she cried fiercely. “Cut them off!!”
His eyes glowed jet and gold, his breath came quickly from joy. He produced his sharp scissors. . . .
And whilst she knelt, he cut off both her wings.
They fell on the ground and shrivelled up.
“Oh, that pains, that pains! . . . . Oh, that pains!” cried Psyche.
“It is a little wound, it will soon heal,” said the Satyr soothingly, but grinning with pleasure.
Then he threw a panther’s skin round her,
