This is a marvellous thing. Either the clocks are all wrong, or else the sun should have risen more than an hour ago. Yet not a gleam of light is to be seen in the east, though the sky is as bright and clear as a mirror. All the stars shine as if it were midnight. I must go and consult the Almagest and Sacrobosco, and see what they say about this event. I have often heard talk of the night Jove passed with the wife of Amphitryon, and I also remember reading a little while ago, in a modern Spanish book, that the Peruvians record a very long night, at the end of which the sun proceeded forth from a certain lake called Titicaca. Hitherto I have regarded these as mere tales, and have never wavered in my belief. Now, however, that I perceive reason and science to be absolutely useless, I am determined to believe the truth of these, and similar things. I will also visit the lakes and puddles in the neighbourhood, and see if I can fish out the sun.
Ha! what is this that I hear? It is like the flapping of the wings of some huge bird.
Scene III.—The Last Hour and Copernicus.
Last Hour. Copernicus, I am the Last Hour.
Copernicus. The Last Hour! Well, I suppose I must be resigned. But I beg of you, if possible, to give me enough time to make my will, and put my things in order, before I die.
Last Hour. Die! What do you mean? I am not the last hour of your life.
Copernicus. Oh, then, what are you? The last hour of the office of the breviary?
Last Hour. I can quite imagine you prefer that one to the others, when you are in your stall.
Copernicus. But how do you know I am a Canon? And how is it you know my name?