High up, like a butterfly, which was a goddess, sat Psyche, and laughed with glistening eyes and glowing cheeks, waving to the nymphs.
“Live! long live Psyche—Psyche with the splendid wings!” shouted the nymphs.
The wind blew, the leaves whirled about; the procession swept past as though hurried along by the gale. A little wine-god had fallen and lay in the yellow leaves, playing with his chubby legs, purple-red from the juice of grapes; he was crying because he had been left behind; then he succeeded in getting on to his feet, and tottered after the procession....
The nymphs laughed loudly at the little wine-god; they dived under and beneath the rocks.
The wind blew, the yellow leaves whirled about.
And the wood became still and lonely.
Chapter XVIII
“Psyche, stay!” said Bacchus entreatingly.
“No, no, let me alone!”