And she goes, a cup thrust into her hand, to the dance. Slowly and smoothly at first, but, as the rhythms pick up, with greater and greater speed until like the rest she dances in a seeming frenzy first with this one and then with that...and then with the whole group at once... Now the shepherd himself dances...and he catches the young maid in his arms and they twirl and spin...the music continuing though she neither knows nor cares how nor why. And, at last, in an explosion of desire and heat, they fall to the earth, writhing as one.... At the first cockcrow...the trees on the horizon barely silhouetted against the light that precedes the dawn...she woke to find herself alone beside the broken chalice that lay on the roadway. She looked about and, for one fleeting moment, saw the figure of a dog, long nosed, pointed ears erect, tail up, fur glistening with sweat, about to turn the corner of the mansion, stop and look her in the eyes, then vanish.
It is, she feels, a day of unbelievable softness...and she goes about her work easily...paying little heed to the servants astir on the lawn. She knows not how yet but her life is changed. That is enough to know this morning of soft yawns and languid delight.
The ancient cup's shards, now collected by a servant, show a hunting dog pursuing a deer across a field while light-footed boys and girls dance amid gauzy ribbons. It will never be used again.