“You are crazy—both of you!” cried Eros, wrestling with the fear that beset him, and striving to speak in an assured and masterful tone. “What has Mortimer to do with you, Psyche? You are mine, and whoever pretends to take you from me is my enemy!”
“Eros—Eros!” exclaimed the girl, with passionate earnestness, “it is you who are crazy, my poor darling. Mortimer is dead; and the letter which he wrote—the letter that I alone read and touched—had in it the contagion of the pestilence. It was the message of my death; and now my death has come.”
“Death shall not have you!” cried Eros, starting to his feet; and such was the vehemence of his rebellious anger that he felt ready to defy even Omnipotence. “What have I done that I should lose you? I have loved you truly and faithfully—why should not my love have its rightful fulfilment? It shall not go for naught and end in dust and ashes! As for this future you talk about, what is it? a misty possibility—an indefinite surmise—nothing! I say it is unjust and tyrannical, and I will not submit! Come to me, Psyche!”
He reached towards her through the dusk, but she seemed to falter backwards from him, and when he would have followed, the tall form of the mysterious guest rose between, and beneath that mighty and majestic gaze the eyes of Eros wavered, though the rebellion in him was unconquered still.
“You must yield her to me,” said those deep, reverberating tones; “yet it is not I that parts you. True lovers can be parted only through want of faith. Upon yourself alone, therefore, does it depend whether she leaves you for a time or for ever.”
Eros pressed his hands to his head. Every good and evil impulse of his soul was in deadly struggle for the mastery. Was his love greater than Death? or had the past been a delusion? Was the future to be a blank? He was but a man, with a man’s weaknesses. He must rise to higher levels through bitter trial, if at all; and except there were in him some elements of generous nobleness, to turn his stubborn self-will at the crisis of the conflict, the demon of mistrust would gain the victory. Had he such allies?
“Speak to him again, Psyche,” murmured the lofty presence, “you may yet prevail.”
“Eros,” she said, throwing all the tenderness of her loving soul into the word, “this is more than our friend—he is our brother. Love and Death should glorify each other. If they are enemies, Death becomes cruel and Love degraded. Yield me up now that you may possess me for ever. Oh, quick, my love—quick!”
The struggling man uttered a cry, heartrending, full of anguish. He was faint and giddy, and the world seemed to reel beneath his feet. He stretched out his arms. “I love you, Psyche,” he uttered. “Do not leave me behind; let me go with you!”
He felt her hand again within his own. “You are my own Eros,” she whispered in his ear. “I shall not altogether leave you; you will see me in dreams, and you will know that the Paradise I go to is near this earthly home of ours. At last—perhaps not for a long time—but at last we shall meet there. And now ... take me to our marriage-altar, and let us say farewell there.”