The star hid itself in the darkness.
“Come!” cried the Bacchantes.
Psyche took a step forward. . . .
“Brook!” she then cried, “little stream of the land of the Present, babbling pure and peacefully, in which I never more may cool myself . . . . oh, tell him that I am unworthy of him and beg him to forgive me!”
The brook went murmuring over the stones, and muttered: “No, no. . . .”
“Come, come!” cried the Bacchantes.
Then Psyche plucked a single violet, white as a maiden’s face.
“Sweet violet!” said she, “humble flower, don’t be proud. Your queen, who is forsaking her kingdom, entreats the star and brook in vain. She is no longer a queen. She is no longer obeyed. Sweet violet, hear the prayer of Psyche, who, unworthy, is forsaking the Present. . . .”
“Stay, Psyche!” implored the flower in her hand.
“Dear little flower!” said Psyche, “born in the moss, withering when you are plucked, what do you know of gods and mortals? What do you know of soul and life and power? Psyche can no longer stay. But
