land. Often
in prison Faria had said to him, when he saw him idle and inactive,
"Dantes, you must not give way to this listlessness; you will be drowned
if you seek to escape, and your strength has not been properly exercised
and prepared for exertion." These words rang in Dantes' ears, even
beneath the waves; he hastened to cleave his way through them to see if
he had not lost his strength. He found with pleasure that his captivity
had taken away nothing of his power, and that he was still master of
that element on whose bosom he had so often sported as a boy.

Fear, that relentless pursuer, clogged Dantes' efforts. He listened for
any sound that might be audible, and every time that he rose to the top
of a wave he scanned the horizon, and strove to penetrate the darkness.
He fancied that every wave behind him was a pursuing boat, and he
redoubled his exertions, increasing rapidly his distance from the
chateau, but exhausting his strength. He swam on still, and already the
terrible chateau had disappeared in the darkness. He could not see it,
but he felt its presence. An hour passed, during which Dantes, excited
by the feeling of freedom, continued to cleave the waves. "Let us see,"
said he, "I have swum above an hour, but as the wind is against me, that
has retarded my speed; however, if I am not mistaken, I must be close
to Tiboulen. But what if I were mistaken?" A shudder passed over him.
He sought to tread water, in order to rest himself; but the sea was
too violent, and he felt that he could not make use of this means of
recuperation.

"Well," said he, "I will swim on until I am worn out, or the cramp
seizes me, and then I shall sink;" and he struck out with the energy of
despair.

Suddenly the sky seemed to him to become still darker and more dense,
and heavy clouds seemed to sweep down towards him; at the same time he
felt a sharp pain in his knee. He fancied for a moment that he had been
shot, and listened for the report; but he heard nothing. Then he put out
his hand, and encountered an obstacle and with another stroke knew that
he had gained the shore.

Before him rose a grotesque mass of rocks, that resembled nothing
so much as a vast fire petrified at the moment of its most fervent
combustion. It was the Island of Tiboulen. Dantes rose, advanced a few
steps, and, with a fervent prayer of gratitude, stretched himself on
the granite, which seemed to him softer than down. Then, in spite of the
wind and ra