Her voice grew terrible, and, screeching, she stepped nearer, and with a look at the casket, said pitilessly:
“Or ... weep for it ... suffer for it. I care not how much.”
She paused, and then in a voice of horrible hypocrisy, continued:
“And then, if you bring me the Sacred Jewel, the name of which may not be uttered....” She drew still nearer.
... “Then be blessed, Psyche, and share with me, Emeralda, your sister, the divine omnipotence!”
Like an oracle sounded her hypocritical voice. She felt in Psyche an unknown power; she feared for her soul, and wished to gain that power for herself, to make sure of the two-fold omnipotence of the world, both soul and body. And in the horrible penance which she laid upon Psyche, she feigned tender love. Creaking and cracking, she drew nearer, and in her web of rays shed a sunbeam over her kneeling sister, and with her stiff opal fingers stroked the bent head with its fair, long tresses.
An ice-cold shiver ran through Psyche, as if her burning soul were being frozen.
“I obey,” she murmured.
And she rose up, intoxicated from splendour, stiff from icy coldness. She tottered and shut her eyes. When she opened them, she was in a gloomy ante-chamber, clad in her coarse mantle; and the shield-bearers approached with torches.
“Conduct me to Astra!” she commanded.