And whilst she knelt, he cut off both her wings.
They fell on the ground and shrivelled up.
“Oh, that pains, that pains!... Oh, that pains!” cried Psyche.
“It is a little wound, it will soon heal,” said the Satyr soothingly, but grinning with pleasure.
Then he threw a panther’s skin round her, put a wreath of vine-leaves on her head, and she was like a fair Bacchante still very young and tender, with her white skin, with her tender eyes of soul-innocence, in which, deep down, dejection reigned.
“Psyche!” cried he delighted, “Psyche! How pretty you are!”
She uttered her shrill laugh, her laugh of bitter irony. He led her away down the hills. She looked about: yonder lay the Present, reduced to dust and spider-webs. She looked about: in the wind, which was blowing, her wings whirled away, shrivelled up, whirled away like dry leaves.
She laughed and put her arm round his neck, and they hastened back to the wood.