to fortune--I am he whose father you condemned to die of
hunger--I am he whom you also condemned to starvation, and who yet
forgives you, because he hopes to be forgiven--I am Edmond Dantes!"
Danglars uttered a cry, and fell prostrate. "Rise," said the count,
"your life is safe; the same good fortune has not happened to your
accomplices--one is mad, the other dead. Keep the 50,000 francs you have
left--I give them to you. The 5,000,000 you stole from the hospitals has
been restored to them by an unknown hand. And now eat and drink; I will
entertain you to-night. Vampa, when this man is satisfied, let him be
free." Danglars remained prostrate while the count withdrew; when he
raised his head he saw disappearing down the passage nothing but
a shadow, before which the bandits bowed. According to the count's
directions, Danglars was waited on by Vampa, who brought him the best
wine and fruits of Italy; then, having conducted him to the road, and
pointed to the post-chaise, left him leaning against a tree. He remained
there all night, not knowing where he was. When daylight dawned he saw
that he was near a stream; he was thirsty, and dragged himself towards
it. As he stooped down to drink, he saw that his hair had become
entirely white.

Chapter 117. The Fifth of October.

It was about six o'clock in the evening; an opal-colored light, through
which an autumnal sun shed its golden rays, descended on the blue ocean.
The heat of the day had gradually decreased, and a light breeze arose,
seeming like the respiration of nature on awakening from the burning
siesta of the south. A delicious zephyr played along the coasts of
the Mediterranean, and wafted from shore to shore the sweet perfume of
plants, mingled with the fresh smell of the sea.

A light yacht, chaste and elegant in its form, was gliding amidst the
first dews of night over the immense lake, extending from Gibraltar to
the Dardanelles, and from Tunis to Venice. The vessel resembled a
swan with its wings opened towards the wind, gliding on the water. It
advanced swiftly and gracefully, leaving behind it a glittering stretch
of foam. By degrees the sun disappeared behind the western horizon; but
as though to prove the truth of the fanciful ideas in heathen mythology,
its indiscreet rays reappeared on the summit of every wave, as if the
god of fire had just sunk upon the bosom of Amphitrite, who in vain
endeavored to hide her lover beneath her azure mantle. The yac