While Psyche rested on her lover’s bosom, Gyges slyly placed in her hand the package which he had carried from the jeweller’s. Feeling the object in her hand, Psyche started.
“What is that, O my lover?” she asked.
“Thou didst not like the ear-rings, my love. Perhaps thou wilt like a golden hair-net.”
“Whilst I looked at the sandals thou didst buy a present?” she asked, as she carefully opened the package.
“Ay, my love. A golden hair-net will require to—”
“A golden hair-net! Why, ’tis the necklace with the hyacinth stones!” she cried with delight. “O my lover, thou art too, too good to me!”
She seated herself on his knees and mutely expressed her thanks in the kisses she gave him.
They relapsed into silence, the happy medium in which the hearts of lovers beat. ’Tis in silence that the leaves whisper their secrets to the gentle zephyrs. ’Tis in silence that the butterflies tell their thoughts to the flowers. The blossoms pour their mysterious perfume on the wings of the air in silence. It was in silence that Aphrodite stole the slumbering Ascanius from his home. She laid him on a bank of violets shaded by bushes covered with luxuriant roses, bent in reverence before his beauty.
Psyche and Gyges, silently clasped in each other’s arms, had become transcendent beings. Sacred reveries filled their souls. The bridge over which they walked from the past to the future was one of gold. The stream that flowed beneath was one of crystal joy. The sun that filled their lives was at its zenith. They seemed to hear an Hellenic song. It was the music of their souls, singing the song of beatific love.
Long they sat there, lost in happiness. Gyges suddenly gave a start, and exclaimed: “Look, O my love! The fountain has stopped playing.”