He lets his arms fall down, quite dazed.
"What a shame! Ah! poor Antony!"
And immediately he hears a whisper:
"Poor Antony."
"Is that anyone? Answer!"
It is the wind passing through the spaces between the rocks that causes these intonations, and in their confused sonorities he distinguishes voices, as if the air were speaking. They are low and insinuating, a kind of sibilant utterance:
The first—"Do you wish for women?"
The second—"Nay; rather great piles of money."
The third—"A shining sword."
The others—"All the people admire you."