The Satyr understood. He began to laugh and gave her vulgar explanations, which she stopped by putting her hand over his mouth; then she cried—
“I do not wish to know. I will not know. Oh, you have told me. Oh! it is frightful! Now I shall not be able to love the Swan, and I shall die of unhappiness.”
He seized her by the arm in his passion.
“Do not touch me!” she cried through her tears. “Oh! how happy was I this morning! I did not realize how happy I was! Now if it return I shall not love it. Now you have told me! Ah! how wicked you are!”
He embraced her and caressed her hair.
“Oh, no! no! no!” she cried. “Do not do that! Oh if the Swan were to come back! Alas! alas! all is ended.”
She stood with staring eyes and open mouth without weeping but with hands trembling with fear.
“I would like to die. I do not even know whether I am mortal. I would like to die in the water, but I fear the naiads, lest they make me join them. Oh! what have I done!”
She sobbed bitterly in his arms. But a serious voice spake before her, and when she opened her eyes she saw the river god crowned with green leaves rising half out of the water and leaning upon a staff of light wood.
He said—