people thought that she was naked, only because she was so fair—Psyche, so pearl-white in her golden hair. She was not wont to be ashamed of nakedness, which was once her right, her privilege as a princess; but now under the eyes of the people she blushed, and walked with downcast eyes. Then she turned to a saleswoman and asked:
“What is the feast for?”
“Where do you come from? ‘What is the feast for!’ Don’t you know anything about it?”
“I come from the other side of the sea. . . .”
“‘What is the feast for!’ It is the great festival: it is the Festival, the Jubilee-festival, of Emeralda. It is the Triumphal Procession of the Queen!!”
. . . . “It is the Triumphal Procession of the Queen!” resounded on all sides. They danced and sang:
. . . . “It is the Triumphal Procession of the Queen!”
They were drunk with joy, dizzy from strange joy; but Psyche suddenly saw that they were deadly pale and frightened, deadly pale under paint and flowers, and frightened whilst they danced round in a ring.
