“Not so high are my ambitions,” said Gyges, with a smile. “I must always see my Psyche beautiful, free from care and trouble. I must always see on her cheek the rosy bloom which I shall try to brush away with kisses. Lay thy head on my shoulder. My lips thirst for kisses, O my love. Let me press thine eyes with my lips. Let me press thy lips with mine. Are we not happy?” “Never was the beloved of Eros happier than I am with thee now, O my lover.” “For the wish to kiss lips like thine, O my love, the Trojan war was fought. The desire for a kiss changed Arethusa into a fountain, Daphne into the aromatic laurel-tree, Adonis into the tremulous flower of the wind. A kiss, my love, is the knot that unites the cords of love, and therefore completes the circle of happiness.” 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.” They hastened to the fountain to see why the water had ceased flowing. Gyges found a small fish caught in the opening. The little fish was dead. “What means this omen?” he asked, in a tone of sadness. There flashed upon his mind that so, too, the spontaneous flow of their happiness, which he had so lately likened to the play of the fountain, might be checked by death. “Is the fish dead?” she asked, affrighted.