ot believe in him, who requires but a prayer, a word, a
tear, and he will forgive? God, who might have directed the assassin's
dagger so as to end your career in a moment, has given you this quarter
of an hour for repentance. Reflect, then, wretched man, and repent."

"No," said Caderousse, "no; I will not repent. There is no God; there is
no providence--all comes by chance."--

"There is a providence; there is a God," said Monte Cristo, "of whom you
are a striking proof, as you lie in utter despair, denying him, while I
stand before you, rich, happy, safe and entreating that God in whom you
endeavor not to believe, while in your heart you still believe in him."

"But who are you, then?" asked Caderousse, fixing his dying eyes on the
count. "Look well at me!" said Monte Cristo, putting the light near his
face. "Well, the abbe--the Abbe Busoni." Monte Cristo took off the wig
which disfigured him, and let fall his black hair, which added so
much to the beauty of his pallid features. "Oh?" said Caderousse,
thunderstruck, "but for that black hair, I should say you were the
Englishman, Lord Wilmore."

"I am neither the Abbe Busoni nor Lord Wilmore," said Monte Cristo;
"think again,--do you not recollect me?" Those was a magic effect in
the count's words, which once more revived the exhausted powers of the
miserable man. "Yes, indeed," said he; "I think I have seen you and
known you formerly."

"Yes, Caderousse, you have seen me; you knew me once."

"Who, then, are you? and why, if you knew me, do you let me die?"

"Because nothing can save you; your wounds are mortal. Had it been
possible to save you, I should have considered it another proof of God's
mercy, and I would again have endeavored to restore you, I swear by my
father's tomb."

"By your father's tomb!" said Caderousse, supported by a supernatural
power, and half-raising himself to see more distinctly the man who had
just taken the oath which all men hold sacred; "who, then, are you?"
The count had watched the approach of death. He knew this was the last
struggle. He approached the dying man, and, leaning over him with a calm
and melancholy look, he whispered, "I am--I am"--And his almost closed
lips uttered a name so low that the count himself appeared afraid to
hear it. Caderousse, who had raised himself on his knees, and stretched
out his arm, tried to draw back, then clasping his hands, and raising
them with a desperate effort, "O my God, my God!" said h