She knelt down and tried to pray. In a corner of the vault a black spot moved. It was a big spider with a white cross on its body.
“So, you have come back again. . . . I knew that you would come. We can escape from nothing. Everything happens as it happens. Everything is as it is. Everything goes to dust; into the pits of the Past, into the power of Emeralda. . . . Now become a spider like us, weave your web, and be wise. . . .”
Psyche got up.
“No . . . .!” she exclaimed, “I will not become a spider, I will weave no web. I have sinned, but I will weave no web; I have sinned and will do penance. The world is awful—desert and wood and space; life is awful—love and pain, joy and despair, sin and punishment. And if fate is as it is, it is in vain to weave a web and to heap up treasures of dust. Spider, were it not more human to love, to live, and even to sin, than to weave web upon web? Spider, I envy you not your sacredness . . . .!”
The spider puffed itself out maliciously.
“You seem to be still proud of your murder
