“Farewell!” she whispered very gently. “Noble Eros, beloved husband, farewell! I am unworthy of you. The Satyr’s kiss is still burning on my lips; my mouth is on fire from the juice of the grapes. Farewell...! And if you can, forgive me!”
She went.
The night was sultry and heavy with thunder; the flowers, exhausted, hung their heads; the nightingale uttered a cry, and she thought it was an owl. Bats flitted about with flapping wings.
She walked with a firm step. She followed the brook to where it flowed into the valley. Yonder ... with the Satyr in their midst, danced the Bacchantes.
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” they cried out, rough and hoarse, and threw at her a bunch of grapes.
She hesitated a moment.... She raised her eyes. Through the gloomy night a single star glistened like a cold, proud eye.
“Sacred star!” said Psyche, “you who watched over me before, and now leave me for ever ... tell him that I am unworthy of him and beg him to forgive me!”
The star hid itself in the darkness.
“Come!” cried the Bacchantes.
Psyche took a step forward....