“Spirits in the white flames, pure white, in the white flames, where shall I find the Jewel for Emeralda?”
“Vanity, vanity!” sang the shades softly and quietly, and in the answer, calm and assuring, of the expectant penitents, vibrated the great viol with a sound like a soft jubilant trill.
Psyche asked no more. She slackened her speed and began to walk, her arms raised, her head erect, through the silvery flames. Oh, the dear, tender flames, the adorable purifying flames! how they cooled, in their snow-white glow, the burning remorse of her soul!
How freely Psyche breathed, in the innocently white glowing fire! Like lilies were the tongues of flame, fragrant and soothing as balsam, cool and fresh as snow ... cold as water, as foam. The white flames foamed and rippled like a sea, lower and smoother, quieter and more serene; they rippled like a sea of lilies, like a sea of silver snow.... They became moisture and water and foaming ocean, the tender element of gentle compulsion, carrying along as an irresistible dream, white as paradise, and, as slightly rippling waves of foam, they bore Psyche away.
On the foaming waves Psyche drifted along, all white in the golden boat of her fair hair. So gently did they rock her, the foaming, rippling waves, that Psyche shut her eyes. Sleep was stealing over her. Her lips smiled with inward peace.
The waves bore her away, the sea washed her ashore. She awoke from her slumber, pearl-white she rose from the foam, amidst the joyful dolphins.
She stepped out of the sea on to the land. She felt quite cool, and her soul was calm and peaceful, full of reassuring, holy knowledge. But within her was a great desire.
Smiling, she stretched out her arms. She yearned for the desire of her heart....
“Not yet ... not yet,” was whispered tenderly to her cool and peaceful soul. “Wait, wait....” sounded the echo.
In the silent joy of her soul, she wept. She lifted her hand to her eyes; wet were her tears, and in her hand ... lay a pearl...!