Myrtles grow luxuriantly between the rough rocks and cyclopic ruins.
The water of the fountain of Perseus, gushing forth from between the rocks, gathers in a shell-like cavity, out of which it runs, to lose itself through the stony ground. In the ancient solitude, already wrapped in the mystery of night, is heard the ceaseless gurgling of the springs. In the deathlike silence is heard the gurgling of the water and the intermittent soughing of the wind in the bending myrtles. She is yours, she is yours. . . . He looks at the corpse with superhuman intensity of grief and love.