but a
single glance, left house, and home, and calling, and wandered after
her--through populous regions as well as through the wilderness--until,
in their dreamy blindness, they fell over steep precipices, or into
raging torrents, or came to an untimely end in one way or another. But
she herself, growing sadder and sadder, wandered along her way, and
thought of the times when the mortals who beheld her grew blissful and
happy and not wretched, and when they gave banquets in her honor, and
laid the most beautiful gifts at her feet; then she was a goddess, with
a train of followers whose numbers were incalculable.

"Brooding in this way, she comes one evening to a celebrated pilgrims'
chapel, lying in a charming little valley, and shaded on all sides by
evergreen trees; and it is so late that no one observes her as she
enters into the empty sanctuary with her boy--who is weary, and whose
feet are sore--still holding fast to the skirts of her beggar's gown.

"Only the eternal lamp is still burning before the altar, but the moon
shines through the arched windows, and it is as bright as day within.
The godlike woman sees a brown, wooden, life-sized figure seated on a
high throne. Two glass eyes glare upon her, and on the head flames a
golden crown; a mantle of red velvet falls about the angular shoulders,
and on her knees lies a wax child in swaddling clothes. She approaches
quite near, and touches the mantle, and plucks at the heavy folds;
whereupon the clasp on the neck of the image becomes unfastened, and
the lean, wooden body appears, looking ghastly enough. A shudder creeps
over the beautiful woman as she sees this image before her in all its
lean, worm-eaten ugliness. 'Ah!' she thinks to herself, 'this
princess's mantle will become me better than it does that old piece of
carving!' and begins to wrap herself in its heavy folds, which give
forth an odor of incense; and then she sets the crown on her head, and
asks her boy whether she pleases him. But he only blinks at her a
little, for he is tired to death. Then she takes pity on the poor
child, lifts the image from its gilded throne, and the wax infant rolls
to the ground and is dashed to pieces. She does not heed this, however,
but mounts the steps and seats herself in the chair under the canopy,
and the little Amor nestles warm in her lap, and, half covered by the
velvet mantle, falls asleep on her heavenly bosom. All around her it is
still; no sound is heard but t