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 “To the islands of opal and silver.”

“They are too far away.”

“Take me, then, nearer to them; take me with you where you will.”

“Are you not afraid?”

“No.”

“Will you hold fast to my neck?”

“Yes, oh yes!”

“Come, then. . . .”

She uttered a cry of joy. He bent his knees, and she got up with a beating, thumping heart. Between his flaming wings, on his broad, broad back, she sat almost as safe as in a nest of silver feathers.

“Trust not to my wings,” he warned her; “I move them at every stroke. They open and shut, open and shut. Hold fast on to my neck. Clasp my mane. If you are not frightened and do not become giddy and sick, you will not fall, however high I go. “Do you dare, Psyche?”

“Yes.”

She fastened his mane round her waist, as if it were strong rope of golden flax. She put her arms round his neck.

“I am ready,” she said courageously.

He ascended, very slowly, with his broad