stars in the sky, and the torches are not yet lit. . . .”
“No? Is it dark about me? That does not matter, Psyche, for I cannot see, I am blind. . . .”
Psyche gave a cry.
“Astra! Poor sister, are you blind? Oh! you who could see so well! are you blind?”
“Yes, I have gazed myself blind!! I have turned my telescope from left to right, to all the points of the universe. I thought to become the centre, the kernel of science, the focus of brilliant knowledge; now I am blind, now I see nothing more, now I know nothing more. The colossal numbers have become confused in my brain since the living Star on my head faded. Do you still see its faint splendour between my grey hair? Ah! now I have your hand.
“What is that, child? What round things are falling over my fingers?”
“My tears, Astra, poor Astra!”
“How hard they are and cold! What hard, cold tears, Psyche! . . . . Sit down here at my feet. Is the night dark? Are the torches not yet lit? Well, let it be dark, for
