(Anthony is not surprised at this voice. It seems to him an echo of his own thought—a response made by his own memory.
Meanwhile the earth gradually assumes the shape of a ball; and he beholds it in the midst of the azure, turning upon its poles, and revolving with the sun.)
The Devil. "So it does not form the centre of the universe! Pride of man! humiliate thyself!"
Anthony. "Now I can scarcely distinguish it. It mingles confusedly with other glowing worlds. The firmament itself is but one tissue of stars."
(And they still rise.)
"No sound!—not even the hoarse cry of eagles! Nothing? I listen for the harmony of the spheres."
The Devil. "Thou wilt not hear them! Nor wilt thou behold the antichtonus of Plato,—or the central furnace of Philolaüs,—or the spheres of Aristotle, or the seven heavens of the Jews, with the great waters above the vault of crystal!"
Anthony. "Yet from below the vault seemed solid as a wall!—on the contrary I penetrate it, I lose myself in it!"
(And he beholds the moon,—like a rounded fragment of ice filled with motionless light.)
The Devil. "Formerly it was the sojourn of souls! Even the good Pythagoras adorned it with magnificent flowers, populated it with birds!"