The night shone. The sultry night shone with diamonds over the horizonless desert. And in the starlight night the beast, terrible, rested there, half-woman, half-lion, squatting in the sand, its paws extended and its b.r.e.a.s.t.s and woman's head protruding, gigantic, reaching to the stars. Her basalt eyes stared straight before her. Her mouth was shut and so were the basalt lips, which would never speak.

Psyche stood before the beast. Around her was the night; around her was the sand; above her the diamond, shining stars. Silently shuddering and full of awe, stood Psyche. Then she thought: "It must be she, the Sphinx...."

She wept. Her tears flowed; she stood in the stream of her tears, which, winding along, followed her. And weeping, she lifted up her voice, small in the night--the voice of a child that speaks in the illimitable.

"Awful Sphinx," she said, "make me wise. You know the problem of life. I pray you solve it to me, and let me no longer weep...."

The Sphinx was silent.

"Sphinx," continued Psyche, "open your stony lips. Speak! Tell me the riddle of life. I was born a princess, naked, with wings; I cannot fly. The light-gold Chimera, the splendid horse with the silver wings, came down to me, took me away with him in wanderings through the air, and I loved him. He has left me--me, a child--alone in the desert, alone in the night. Tell me why? If I know, I shall--perhaps--weep no more. Sphinx, I am tired. I am tired of the air, tired of the sand, tired from crying. And I cannot stop; I keep on crying. If you do not speak to me, Sphinx, then I will drown you, gigantic as you are, in my tears. Look at them flowing around me; look at them rippling at your feet like a sea. Sphinx, they will rise above your head. Sphinx, speak!"

The Sphinx was silent.

The Sphinx, with stony eyes, looked away into the night of diamond stars. Her basalt lips remained closed.

And Psyche wept. Then she cast a look at the stars.

"Sacred Stars," she murmured, "I am alone. My father is dead. The Chimera has gone. The Sphinx is silent. I am alone, and afraid and tired. Sacred Stars, watch over me. See my tears no longer flow; for this night they are exhausted.... I can cry no more. I will go to sleep, here, between the feet of the Sphinx. She speaks not, it is true; but--perhaps she is not angry, and if she wants to crush me with her foot, I care not. But yet I will go to sleep between her powerful feet. In your looks of living diamond, I feel compa.s.sion thrill.... Sacred Stars, I will go to sleep; watch over me...."

She lay down between the feet of the Sphinx, against the breast of the Sphinx. And she was so little and the Sphinx so great, that she was like a b.u.t.terfly sitting near a tower.

Then she fell asleep.

The night was very still. Far, far away in the boundless desert, a mist drifted horizonlessly along, and lit up the darkness. The stream of Psyche's tears meandered, like a silver thread, far away from whence she had come. She herself slept. The Sphinx, with staring eyes and closed mouth, looked out high into the night. The stars twinkled and watched.

CHAPTER XI

Without a cloud arose on the horizon the first dawn of day, the round, rosy-coloured morning glimmer. And in the dawn appeared the horizon, and bordered the sandy plain.

In the rosy light, gigantic, towered the gloomy Sphinx. Psyche slept. But through her weary eyelids, the light softly sent its rays, coral-red, and suddenly she awoke. She opened her eyes, but did not move.

She remained in her slumbering att.i.tude, but her eyes looked about. She saw the desert, without an oasis, only the brooklet of tears that meandered far away from whence she had come. It was like a silver thread in the rosy light of the dawn, and she followed its windings with her eye as long as she could. And when she thus looked, she began to weep again. The tears fell on the feet of the Sphinx, and Psyche wept, in her slumbering position. There was a mist before her eyes, and through the mist glimmered the rosy desert and the little glistening stream.

But now she wiped away her tears, which trickled through her fingers, for she thought she saw ... and that was so improbable. She wiped her eyes again, and saw. She thought she saw ... and it was so improbable.... But yet it was so: she saw. She saw someone coming; along every winding of the brook, she saw someone approaching.... Who was it coming there? She knew not.... He came nearer and nearer. Was she dreaming? No, she was awake. He came, whoever he was. He was approaching....

She remained sitting in the same att.i.tude. And he came nearer and nearer, following the briny track, till he stood before the Sphinx. The Sphinx was so great and Psyche so little, that at first he did not see her. But because she was so white, with crimson wings, he saw her, a little thing red and white!

He approached between the feet of the Sphinx till he stood right before her.

He approached reverentially, because she had wept so much. When he was quite close, he knelt down and folded his hands.

Through her tears she did not recognise him.

"Who are you?" she asked in a faint voice.

He stood up and approached still closer, and then she recognised him. He was Prince Eros, the King of the Present.

"I know who you are," said Psyche. "You are Prince Eros, who was to have married Emeralda, or Astra."

He smiled, and she said:

"Why do you come here in the desert? Are you seeking here for the Jewel, or the Gla.s.s that magnifies?"

He smiled and shook his head.

"No, Psyche," he said gently. "I have never sought for the Jewel nor for the Gla.s.s.

"But first tell me: why are you here and sleeping by the Sphinx?"

She told him. She spoke of her father who was dead, of the light-gold Chimera, of the purple desert and the sorrowful night. She told him of her tears.

"I have followed them, O Psyche!" he replied. "I have come ever since I saw you before your father's throne--a day never to be forgotten!

"I have come here every day. Every day I leave my garden of the Present, to ask the awful Sphinx for the solution of my problem."

"What problem, Prince Eros?"

"The problem of my grief. For I am grieved about you, Psyche, because you would not follow me and stayed with your father.... Now I know why. You loved the Chimera...."

She blushed, and hid her face in her hands.

"Who could see the Chimera and not love him more than me?" said Eros gently. "Who could love him, and not weep over him?" he whispered still more gently; but she did not hear him.

Then he spoke louder.

"Every morning, Psyche, I come to ask the Sphinx how long I must still suffer, and why I must suffer. And still much more, O Psyche, I ask the Sphinx, that I will not tell you now, because...."

"Because...?"

"Because it would perhaps pain you to hear the question of my heart. So I came now, O Psyche, and then I espied a brooklet meandering through the sand. I did not know it; I was thirsty, for I am always thirsty. I stooped down and scooped up the clear water in my hand. It tasted salt, Psyche: they were tears."

"My tears ..." she said, and wept.

"Psyche, I drank them. Tell me, do you forgive me for that?"

"Yes...."

"I followed the brook, and now I have found you here."

She was silent; she looked at him. He knelt down by her.

"Psyche," said he gently, "I love you. Because I saw you little and naked and winged, standing amongst your proud sisters--Psyche, I love you. I love you so much, that I would weep all your tears for you, and would give you ... the Chimera."