oirtier, or young Valentine."

* In the old Greek legend the Atreidae, or children of
Atreus, were doomed to punishment because of the abominable
crime of their father. The Agamemnon of Aeschylus is based
on this legend.

"You knew it?" cried Morrel, in such a paroxysm of terror that Monte
Cristo started,--he whom the falling heavens would have found unmoved;
"you knew it, and said nothing?"

"And what is it to me?" replied Monte Cristo, shrugging his shoulders;
"do I know those people? and must I lose the one to save the other?
Faith, no, for between the culprit and the victim I have no choice."

"But I," cried Morrel, groaning with sorrow, "I love her!"

"You love?--whom?" cried Monte Cristo, starting to his feet, and seizing
the two hands which Morrel was raising towards heaven.

"I love most fondly--I love madly--I love as a man who would give his
life-blood to spare her a tear--I love Valentine de Villefort, who is
being murdered at this moment! Do you understand me? I love her; and I
ask God and you how I can save her?" Monte Cristo uttered a cry which
those only can conceive who have heard the roar of a wounded lion.
"Unhappy man," cried he, wringing his hands in his turn; "you love
Valentine,--that daughter of an accursed race!" Never had Morrel
witnessed such an expression--never had so terrible an eye flashed
before his face--never had the genius of terror he had so often seen,
either on the battle-field or in the murderous nights of Algeria, shaken
around him more dreadful fire. He drew back terrified.

As for Monte Cristo, after this ebullition he closed his eyes as
if dazzled by internal light. In a moment he restrained himself so
powerfully that the tempestuous heaving of his breast subsided, as
turbulent and foaming waves yield to the sun's genial influence when the
cloud has passed. This silence, self-control, and struggle lasted about
twenty seconds, then the count raised his pallid face. "See," said he,
"my dear friend, how God punishes the most thoughtless and unfeeling men
for their indifference, by presenting dreadful scenes to their view. I,
who was looking on, an eager and curious spectator,--I, who was watching
the working of this mournful tragedy,--I, who like a wicked angel was
laughing at the evil men committed protected by secrecy (a secret is
easily kept by the rich and powerful), I am in my turn bitten by the
serpent whose tortuous course I was watching, and bitte