ile the hours passed, if not rapidly, at least tolerably.
Faria, as we have said, without having recovered the use of his hand
and foot, had regained all the clearness of his understanding, and had
gradually, besides the moral instructions we have detailed, taught
his youthful companion the patient and sublime duty of a prisoner,
who learns to make something from nothing. They were thus perpetually
employed,--Faria, that he might not see himself grow old; Dantes, for
fear of recalling the almost extinct past which now only floated in his
memory like a distant light wandering in the night. So life went on for
them as it does for those who are not victims of misfortune and whose
activities glide along mechanically and tranquilly beneath the eye of
providence.

But beneath this superficial calm there were in the heart of the young
man, and perhaps in that of the old man, many repressed desires, many
stifled sighs, which found vent when Faria was left alone, and when
Edmond returned to his cell. One night Edmond awoke suddenly, believing
that he heard some one calling him. He opened his eyes upon utter
darkness. His name, or rather a plaintive voice which essayed to
pronounce his name, reached him. He sat up in bed and a cold sweat
broke out upon his brow. Undoubtedly the call came from Faria's dungeon.
"Alas," murmured Edmond; "can it be?"

He moved his bed, drew up the stone, rushed into the passage, and
reached the opposite extremity; the secret entrance was open. By the
light of the wretched and wavering lamp, of which we have spoken, Dantes
saw the old man, pale, but yet erect, clinging to the bedstead. His
features were writhing with those horrible symptoms which he already
knew, and which had so seriously alarmed him when he saw them for the
first time.

"Alas, my dear friend," said Faria in a resigned tone, "you understand,
do you not, and I need not attempt to explain to you?"

Edmond uttered a cry of agony, and, quite out of his senses, rushed
towards the door, exclaiming, "Help, help!" Faria had just sufficient
strength to restrain him.

"Silence," he said, "or you are lost. We must now only think of you, my
dear friend, and so act as to render your captivity supportable or your
flight possible. It would require years to do again what I have done
here, and the results would be instantly destroyed if our jailers
knew we had communicated with each other. Besides, be assured, my dear
Edmond, the dungeon I am a