carbuncle pupil, a little form, naked and fair, who lifted up her small, child’s hand.
And fiercer and fiercer gleamed her heart of ruby, for she had recognised the form.
And the desire flamed up in her: the thirst for more power and to become like a god.
Emeralda recognised Psyche. And she reined in her twelve pair of horses, she drove them more slowly, and under the less quickly revolving wheels she heard the jubilant cry of the dying people. The blood dropped from the wheels, but the roses rained down and covered the horrible sight. On the bloody, muddy mass, the roses rained down, white, from the balconies of the palaces.
Emeralda stopped.
Under her, death was silent.
Around, the town was silent. She alone reigned and shot out her terrible fan of rays, which scorched the houses and pierced the air.
And before her, at a little distance, stood Psyche, proud, pearl-white, crowned with roses, in a veil of gold.
And the silent crowd recognised in her the third princess of the kingdom.
“Psyche!” said Emeralda, and her voice
