Till We Have Faces: A Myth Retold

by C.S. Lewis

Then suddenly we found we were on the brow of a steep slope; and at the same moment the sun—which had been overcast ever since we went down into the black valley—leaped out.

‘Careful, Lady. It may be her wraith. It may—ai! ai!—it is the bride of the god. It is a goddess.’ He was deadly white, and bending down to throw earth on his forehead.

You could not blame him. She was so brightface, as we say in Greek. But I felt no holy fear. What?—I to fear the very Psyche whom I had carried in my arms and taught to speak and to walk?

‘Go?’ said I. ‘I’d go if the river flowed with fire instead of water.’

‘A little further up, Orual,’ Psyche was saying. ‘Here’s the best ford. Go straight ahead off that big stone.

‘Have you ever tasted a nobler wine?’ she said. ‘Or in a fairer cup?’ ‘It is indeed a good drink,’ said I. ‘But the cup is better. It is the cup I love best in the world.’

‘Do? Why, be merry, what else? Why should our hearts not dance?’