lden light in which the whole scene was bathed, the Count of Monte
Cristo, wrapped in his cloak, could think only of this terrible voyage,
the details of which were one by one recalled to his memory. The
solitary light burning at the Catalans; that first sight of the Chateau
d'If, which told him whither they were leading him; the struggle with
the gendarmes when he wished to throw himself overboard; his despair
when he found himself vanquished, and the sensation when the muzzle of
the carbine touched his forehead--all these were brought before him
in vivid and frightful reality. Like the streams which the heat of the
summer has dried up, and which after the autumnal storms gradually begin
oozing drop by drop, so did the count feel his heart gradually fill with
the bitterness which formerly nearly overwhelmed Edmond Dantes. Clear
sky, swift-flitting boats, and brilliant sunshine disappeared; the
heavens were hung with black, and the gigantic structure of the Chateau
d'If seemed like the phantom of a mortal enemy. As they reached the
shore, the count instinctively shrunk to the extreme end of the boat,
and the owner was obliged to call out, in his sweetest tone of voice,
"Sir, we are at the landing."

Monte Cristo remembered that on that very spot, on the same rock, he had
been violently dragged by the guards, who forced him to ascend the slope
at the points of their bayonets. The journey had seemed very long to
Dantes, but Monte Cristo found it equally short. Each stroke of the oar
seemed to awaken a new throng of ideas, which sprang up with the flying
spray of the sea.

There had been no prisoners confined in the Chateau d'If since the
revolution of July; it was only inhabited by a guard, kept there for the
prevention of smuggling. A concierge waited at the door to exhibit to
visitors this monument of curiosity, once a scene of terror. The count
inquired whether any of the ancient jailers were still there; but they
had all been pensioned, or had passed on to some other employment. The
concierge who attended him had only been there since 1830. He visited
his own dungeon. He again beheld the dull light vainly endeavoring to
penetrate the narrow opening. His eyes rested upon the spot where had
stood his bed, since then removed, and behind the bed the new stones
indicated where the breach made by the Abbe Faria had been. Monte Cristo
felt his limbs tremble; he seated himself upon a log of wood.

"Are there any stories con