“Come, then....”
She uttered a cry of joy. He bent his knees, and she got up with a beating, thumping heart. Between his flaming wings, on his broad, broad back, she sat almost as safe as in a nest of silver feathers.
“Trust not to my wings,” he warned her; “I move them at every stroke. They open and shut, open and shut. Hold fast on to my neck. Clasp my mane. If you are not frightened and do not become giddy and sick, you will not fall, however high I go. Do you dare, Psyche?”
“Yes.”
She fastened his mane round her waist, as if it were strong rope of golden flax. She put her arms round his neck.
“I am ready,” she said courageously.
He ascended, very slowly, with his broad wings. Under him, under her, the terrace sank away.
She shut her eyes, she held her breath, and the blood left her heart. Under her the castle sank away.
“Stop!” she implored. “I am dying....”
“I thought so, Psyche. You are much too weak. You cannot go up with me....”