webs, one for the other, we serve the princess and protect her treasures—the treasures of the Past, which behind our weaving go to dust.”
“But if they go to dust, of what value are they?”
“Foolish child, dust is everything. The Past is dust; remembrance is dust. Everything becomes dust; love, jewels—all becomes dust, and the sacred dust we watch over behind our webs. Become a spider like us, weave your web, and be wise.”
“But I live. I am young, I desire, I love, and I cannot bury myself in dust. . . . Oh, tell me whither I must flee!”
The spider laughed scornfully, and moved its eight legs with great impatience.
“Ask me not about the places of the world—the regions of the wind. I sit here and spin. I am holy. I watch over the treasure of the throne. Disturb me no more with your frivolity, and let not your wings get entangled in the rays of my web, although you are not a moth, but princess of the Kingdom of the Past. . . .”
Psyche was frightened. The spider reverenced her because she was a princess, but coveted with his wicked instinct. . . . And
