“What does my Psyche think about? May I not leave her any more, alone by the brook?”
“No, no!” said she hastily, and drew his arms round her.... “No,” she continued quickly. “Don’t leave me alone any more. Always stay by me. Protect me from myself, O Eros...!”
“Is little Psyche ill?”
She nodded in the affirmative, and laid her burning head upon his breast; she nestled against him and shut her feverish eyes.
He stayed by her, and all around was still, and the cupids appeared fluttering in the air. That night she slept in Eros’ arms. She awoke for a moment out of her sleep; far away in the distance through the crystal of the palace she heard the sound of pipes. She raised her head and listened. But she would not hear any more, and hid herself in Eros’ arms and fell asleep on his heart.
The next day he stayed by her, and they wandered to the brook. Sadness hung over the garden, the flowers drooped. In the afternoon Psyche became uneasy; she heard the pipe, and in the distance caught a glimpse of vague forms dancing.
“Do you see nothing?” she asked Eros.
“No....”
“Do you hear nothing?” she said again.
“No,” he answered. “Poor Psyche is ill. And the flowers are ill too, because she is. Oh, let Eros cure you...!”