"Say, master," he said, with a sigh, "am I able to leave you?"

Monte-Cristo smiled.

"You are a child," he then said. "You cannot bear to hear anybody speaking of your love, because you are forever separated from her."

"Oh, master, then you know everything."

"Listen to me, I am ready to tell you all that I know. There below, in the Catalonian quarter of Marseilles, lives a fisherman's family. Brave and diligent, they were never ashamed of their calling. They have worked day and night with boat and net, and accumulated a nice amount of property. The family consists of ten persons: father, mother, seven sons, and one daughter live in the modest but decent hut. The sons are strong and courageous fellows, who are not afraid of anybody; the daughter is charming with her dark curly hair, her glowing sloe-black eyes, and her marble white skin. Jacopo, am I to tell you the name of the little one?"

"Manuelita"—it sounded gently like a breath from the lips of Jacopo.

"You have liked this beautiful child since you first saw her, and one day you took heart and you went to Manuelita's father—"

"Who turned me out like a beggar," interrupted Jacopo, gloomily.

"That he did not do," continued the count, coolly. "He told you quietly, Manuelita will not become a poor man's wife."

"And perhaps that was no insult?" continued Jacopo, vehemently. "All people cannot be rich."

"But Manuelita's father has also told you something else?" asked Monte-Cristo, quietly.

"Oh, yes," replied Jacopo, bitterly; "he called after me that if I came back with twenty thousand francs, then Manuelita should be mine. I earn such wealth! He was making sport of me."

And Jacopo stamped angrily and uttered a heavy curse.

Monte-Cristo looked at him reflectively. Then he took a leaf from his pocket-book, which he held in his hand, and offering it to Jacopo, said:

"Here, take this."

"What am I to do with it, master?" asked Jacopo, astonished.

"Well, can't you read any more?"

"Oh, yes; I read an order for 20,000 francs to which your name is affixed."

"And payable at—"

"Thomson & French, in Rome."

"You perhaps doubt whether these gentlemen will honor my signature."

"Oh, master, your signature is as good as ready cash!"

"Well, then, go to the first banker you can find and have the check cashed."

Jacopo looked at the count quite bewildered, and thus the conversation about Manuelita was ended, and his master gave him simply an order.

"Am I to deliver the cash to you, master?" he asked, not being certain yet.

"No, not to me."

"To whom, then, otherwise, master?"

"To nobody."

"Yes, but, dear me, what is the money for?"

"You shall keep it."

"I?"

"Yes, you yourself."

"And what am I to do with it?"

"You have to look for Manuelita's father, show him the money, and remind him of his pledge."

Pale, not able to utter a word, Jacopo stared at the count; Monte-Cristo waited a moment, and then said, smilingly:

"Have you now understood me?"

"No, master—I do not comprehend—"

"Nay, one might almost believe that you have not a grain of sense. The amount is your property—you have deserved it honestly."

"I deserve it? Oh, you make sport of me! If I have done my duty, that is my best recompense."

"Yes, for your services as captain of the yacht. But there are also other services which cannot be paid for; submission, honesty, and courage cannot be paid for in gold, and in spite of the 20,000 francs I remain still your debtor."

"Oh, master, you make me feel ashamed!"

"Jacopo," said the count, sorrowfully, "do not speak like that. Of what value is money to me? I can give you still more, but to what purpose? You have enough to be happy; you have had a dream of domestic happiness, try to realize it! Your desires are moderate; you intend to work and be useful from morning to night, and as the only reward for your labor you require Manuelita's love. Have you any further wishes, my brave man?"

"No, none; only Manuelita!"

"Then take her, and be happy!"

Jacopo stared yet at his master rather doubtfully.

"What is it to be, Jacopo, yes or no?"

Instead of answering, Jacopo kissed the hand of his master.

"All right, Jacopo," said Monte-Cristo. "I only require one thing of you."

"Oh, speak—speak only!"

"I know, in case I came in a few months to Marseilles, you will hesitate to accompany me."

"I hesitate, master? How can you believe that? My life belongs to you!"

"No, Jacopo; from the moment you call Manuelita yours your life belongs to her. Do not take any oath, for you will never keep it. Did not even Peter deny the Lord three times? and Peter had no loving wife. In six, in twelve months, the thought of leaving Manuelita will surely make you unhappy; I know man, and I know you."

Jacopo looked toward the ground rather ashamed; he was aware that the count had spoken the truth.

"Nor do I demand that you should leave her."

Jacopo breathed a great deal easier.

"What am I to do?" he inquired hastily.

"Swear to me that, at any day or any hour I should call on you in Manuelita's name to assist me, you will follow my orders!"

Jacopo lifted his right hand on high.

"Master, I swear it to you," said he, solemnly.

"I trust to your oath; go and be happy."

Overcome with joy, Jacopo hastened to Marseilles, soon reached the Catalonian quarter, and greeted Manuelita with a bright smile.

The father of the beautiful Catalonian was on the point of becoming vexed when he saw Jacopo, but soon became almost dumb when the Corsican waved a well-filled purse and reminded him of his promise.

Scarcely a month elapsed before the marriage was celebrated, and happy Jacopo led the beautiful Manuelita to the neat abode which he had prepared for her.

There have passed days and months full of undisturbed happiness. Jacopo has bought a barge and baptized her Manuelita; he has sailed on the blue ocean and returned with a rich harvest of fish; prosperity reigns in the little cottage on the strand, and Manuelita is beautiful as the young day.

The count appeared one morning, when Jacopo was just ready for his fishing excursion.

"Will you accompany me?" he asked, laughingly.

The Corsican flushed, and Monte-Cristo said in a consoling tone: "Quiet yourself, I am only joking; what I want of you to-day will take only a short time."

That was at the time when the count ordered Jacopo to bring his farewell wishes to Valentine and Maximilian.

When the Ice Bird with sails unfurled left Marseilles, Jacopo felt somewhat dissatisfied with himself, and sometimes it appeared to him as if Manuelita had changed. Beautiful and lovely she still appeared, but her manner made some impression on Jacopo, and by degrees he found that others also thought his young, lovely wife had undergone a change. First, it was only hinted at, but afterward the talk spread and became louder that Manuelita deceived her husband; she loved another, Jacopo's friend. Jacopo did not at first mind this talk, but one evening he saw Manuelita fly at Parlo and offer him her sweet lips to kiss, and it enraged him to think that the people were in the right. He mastered with superhuman exertion all the thoughts that surged within him, and nobody might know that he was aware of the disgrace of his wife, nor that he contemplated an awful revenge. Why Manuelita betrayed him none could tell! He was a most faithful and indulgent husband; he would have gone for the beautiful Catalonian into the fire, and she—the lips which she offered him were soiled from the adulterous kisses of Parlo—the arm which she placed round his neck had also embraced Judas lovingly—she was a monster in enticing form. From this time, when Jacopo realized Manuelita's faithlessness he resolved to destroy her and her lover, and that the boat which bore the name of the faithless wife should become the instrument to carry out his revenge!

One morning Jacopo said to Manuelita:

"The weather is delightful; I think I shall take a fishing cruise. Will you accompany me?"

Manuelita hesitated; she thought perhaps Parlo might visit her.

Jacopo noticed her hesitation, and said with a smile that tore his heart into pieces:

"I have also asked Parlo to accompany us, because he is such good company!"

Manuelita's countenance began to beam, and Jacopo suffered the pains of torment when he perceived it, but took heart and said coolly:

"I shall in the meantime go to the shore to see whether the nets are all in proper condition."

He went, and when he returned after a while, and accidentally threw a glance at the window, he found Parlo in Manuelita's arms.

Pale as death and with tottering knees the unfortunate remained almost petrified on the spot; and when he revived a little and came ten minutes later into the house he appeared gay, and nobody could guess what anguish of soul he suffered.

"Are you ready?" he inquired quietly.

"Yes," nodded Manuelita.

"Then let us go; the nets are all ready."

Like an automaton Jacopo walked along the shore between the guilty pair; he mechanically answered questions, and when Manuelita offered her lips for a kiss after being helped into the boat, he had sufficient power over himself to touch with his lips the false mouth.

The boat glided through the blue waves of the ocean; Manuelita's dark curls played with the wind, and Parlo was intoxicated with joy as he looked at her. Jacopo sat at the rudder and looked inquiringly at a small dark cloud which appeared on the horizon some distance off and quickly neared them.

The Corsican allowed the boat to go with full sail before the wind, and soon nothing but the sky and water could be seen.

Parlo and Manuelita, engaged with each other, did not perceive the change in the weather, and when they heard in the distance a hollow, rolling sound they quickly arose to their feet.

Manuelita trembled, and lifting her beautiful eyes to Jacopo she inquired anxiously:

"Jacopo, is there a storm coming on?"

"Pah," replied the Corsican reassuringly, as he threw his net into the sea; "it is of no importance."

Jacopo was an experienced seaman; when he said the storm did not signify, you could depend on it that he was right. Manuelita saw that Jacopo was quite unconcerned, and looking at the roaring, rising waves she again grew calm and again watched Parlo. He also seemed careless; he laughed and joked, and, behind Jacopo's back, stole many a kiss from his beloved.

A bright flash of lightning came down; the thunder rolled, and the black, cloudy wall rose ever higher on the blue horizon. Jacopo, however, did not mind it; he hummed a Corsican fisher-song and dipped his net into the sea. That he always drew it out empty did not trouble him; from time to time he threw unnoticed a glance at the others and gnashed his teeth.

Suddenly a heavy gale caught the foresail and tore it to shreds; the mainsail was also destroyed, then the foresail fell to the deck.

With a loud cry Manuelita sank on her knees and Parlo cried out terrified:

"Jacopo, we are lost!"

"Save us, Jacopo," sobbed the Catalonian; and then she made the sign of the cross and muttered a prayer, while the storm increased in fury.

Jacopo remained motionless. He took an axe and lifted it high in his right hand, while the boat tossed like a nutshell and the noise of the storm deadened all other sounds.

"The boat is too heavy," muttered Jacopo to himself, and swinging his axe he cut off the mizzen-mast close to the deck. Neither Parlo nor Manuelita said a word, and, engaged only with each other, believed that Jacopo was trying to save them, and only as the mast heavily struck the waves realized their peril.

The storm now absolutely controlled the light boat and twisted her round here and there. Jacopo lifted his axe again and cut down also the foremast.

"Parlo," shrieked Manuelita, despairingly, "save us—we drown!"

Parlo pretended that he did not hear these words, for Jacopo's curious fixed look had put him on his guard. Manuelita, overcome with fright, forgot everything, and, clasping her hands around Parlo's neck, she sobbed out:

"Save me—oh, save me, Parlo!"

Jacopo swung his axe afresh, but this time it remained deep in the keel of the ship, and now light dawned on Parlo. Jacopo meant to destroy them.

"Hold on, Jacopo," he called aloud despairingly, and tried to take hold of the axe.

The Corsican said not a word, but he, with his axe uplifted, kept Parlo at a distance, and then cut again into the keel, till a loud creaking was audible.

Jacopo had at last succeeded in his object—gurgling and roaring, the agitated waters rose through the leak in the ship, and Parlo shrieked like a madman.

"Jacopo—you carry us to destruction!"

Jacopo's pale features became at last animated; he threw himself on Parlo, grasped his shoulders, and, forcing him on the floor of the boat, pressed his knee on his chest.

"Manuelita," he called, with a voice which sounded through the storm like a trumpet, "you shall be happy with your lover, miserable woman!"

Manuelita heard the words—she saw the quick rising flood—she saw Jacopo kneeling upon Parlo's chest, and she understood all—all!

Higher and higher still rose the water, and now Jacopo laughingly left his rival—he was drowning in the waves.

Manuelita raised her folded hands in entreaty—then came a last shriek, a hoarse laugh, and the boat sank, never to be seen again.

The next day the sea was serene and calm in the splendor of the rising sun, and a man engaged in fishing noticed a motionless body lying on the strand. Alarmed he hastened to lift up the body and recognized Jacopo!

Singularly enough, life was not quite extinct; the fisher brought the half-dead man to his house, and under the careful treatment of kind neighbors Jacopo soon revived as far as his body was concerned, but his mind remained affected.

A few days later the corpses of Parlo and Manuelita were driven on the strand, and now what had caused Jacopo to become insane was no more a riddle—had he not in one day lost the wife and the friend?

Jacopo's madness was of a quiet kind; for hours he could sit on the shore and watch the playful movements of the waves; sometimes he bent over the blue waters as if he were in search of something, and then he shook his head sorrowfully. One day he sat again during a heavy gale on the strand; he saw a boat in which two men and a woman were sitting fighting with the waves. In his eyes light began to dawn all at once. He plunged into the water and soon had reached the boat. Breathless stood the people who saw it and noticed all his movements, and now they found him swimming toward the shore, holding a human figure in his arms, and loud hurrahs and rejoicing met him for his courage.

He had succeeded in saving the woman; the two men found a watery grave. In expectation of something, he knelt down by the woman, and when she opened her eyes Jacopo uttered sorrowfully:

"It is not her," and then departed.

From this day Jacopo's madness was broken; he certainly roamed about for days on the strand, but the veil which had clouded his mind was torn, and only when a storm raged it came over him like inspiration, and he ventured courageously upon saving the lives of those in danger.

Thus not a week passed in which Jacopo had not found opportunity to save people from shipwreck: the inhabitants on the strand surrounded him with a godlike veneration, and whenever a vessel was in danger there he was on the spot. Heaven seemingly favored him; hundreds he saved from a watery grave, and soon his word on the strand became quite an authority.

In course of time Jacopo began clearly to remember the entire affair as it happened on that eventful morning, and in order to drown those recollections he became a drunkard. In this state he was found by the English sailor, in whom, no doubt, the reader must have recognized the Count of Monte-Cristo; also Jacopo knew the voice of his beloved master, and his heart became animated with fresh hopes when he called him to his help. As Jacopo knelt before the count, Monte-Cristo put aside the long, entangled hair which hung down over the Corsican's face, and, in a sorrowful tone and compassionately moved by the sight, said to him:

"Jacopo, you have suffered heavily!"

The Corsican sobbed bitterly, and the count continued: "How long it is since I saw your bright face on the strand; at that time you were happy in the possession of Manuelita, and to-day I find you broken, despairing, and—alone!"

Jacopo could only go on sobbing, and hot tears came down his pale, haggard cheeks.

"You have killed Manuelita," whispered the count softly.

Jacopo trembled.

"Who has told you, master?"

"Don't you know that I can read your soul?"

"Yes," nodded Jacopo. "I have killed her!"

"And do you regret the deed?"

"This question I cannot exactly answer," observed Jacopo timidly. "I was for a time insane, and often I wish I were so even now; the clouded mind was bliss compared with the terrible recollections which now break my heart! Oh, what wouldn't I give to have courage enough to take my own life; but I lack that courage; I suffer terribly, I cry, I wring my hands, and yet I live. Oh, the cowardice! who will save me from myself?"

"I," said Monte-Cristo, earnestly.

"You, master? Yes, you are almighty, and if you like you are able to pull out of my bleeding wounds the painful darts which are tearing my heart. Pity me, count, and I am free!"

Monte-Cristo's look rested pitifully upon the unfortunate, and his voice sounded soft and mild when saying:

"Jacopo, only to save you I came here."

"I feel it, I know it; oh, how kind you are!"

"Jacopo, when man is carried away by his passions and has done evil—what you have done was bad, because you did not possess the right to judge Manuelita, and you feel it by your remorse—then there is only one remedy, to atone for the sin—"

"Oh, mention the remedy, master! It is singular, but since I have looked into your eyes and heard your voice, I have the feeling that the bloody fog which darkened my eyes had disappeared. I breathe again more freely, and my head is clear as it was previously, when I passed days on the ocean and saw nothing above me but heaven and sun. Master, tell me, what am I to do?"

"So much good, that the evil may disappear before it."

"Alas, if I could do that! I have killed, and I am lacking the power to raise the dead."

"And if you could nevertheless atone for your crime?"

"Master, I hear your words, but their meaning is clouded for me; please speak plain to me, that I may understand you."

"Jacopo, life and death are related together, which, however, a secret and indissoluble union connect with each other. Not for nothing have I put you to the test; when I visited this cursed place, when I sounded my gold pieces, it was only because I wanted to find out whether misery had also corrupted your soul."

"Oh," replied Jacopo, contemptuously, "it does not say much to have remained an honest man."

"You are too modest, Jacopo; I have found you again as I left you ten years ago; now, listen, will you accompany me?"

Jacopo trembled all over.

"Leave Marseilles?" muttered he, in half-suppressed words; "oh, master, if you only knew that it is my sole and only joy to wander on the strand, and to contemplate that blue ocean which swallowed her up!"

"Jacopo, I have come here for the purpose of fetching you, as I am in want of you. I have to undertake difficulties; my way leads into foreign lands, on ways where death and crime are on the watch, and I have counted on your assistance. Shall I have been mistaken?"

Instead of an answer Jacopo made a bow, and taking the hands of his master, kissed them.

"Thanks, master," muttered he; "I am yours in body and soul!"

"Good, Jacopo, I know you!"

"When do we depart?"

"To-morrow morning."

"And where am I to meet you?"

"On board of the Ice Bird."

"I shall be there."

"I depend on your word; remember my prophecy, that death is the fountain of life, and that your sin disappears when God gives you grace to save the lives of others! Farewell for to-day, by daybreak we meet again."

Monte-Cristo left the liquor store, the Spider and Jacopo looked after him with a glimpse of new awakening hope in their eyes.



CHAPTER XLIV

THE HUMORS OF A LADY-MILLIONNAIRE

While Clary and her governess rode to Marseilles at a late hour, Madame Caraman was devoured with curiosity; but she was, nevertheless, sensible enough not to ask any question of her stubborn ward. When, however, the young girl spurred the horses continually on the governess felt uneasy; she had, besides, often the sensibility of a hen who has to bring up a young duck, and therefore she ventured to make slight objections against the uncommon maddening speed which, owing to her heavy size, became every moment more troublesome to her.

"Clary, at this hour to ride to Marseilles! What would Lord Ellis say to it? I have undertaken a sacred cause, and—"

"Do not trouble yourself, Mamma Caraman. I shall answer for all."

"Also when we break our necks?"

"Even then."

The governess was silent, not because she felt convinced, but owing to the want of breath. By degrees she got used to her present situation, and one does not read Alexandre Dumas in vain. Could there be anything more romantic than this night trip? The moon lighted up trees and shrubs with a fine white light, and they thus appeared as spectres, who in a maddening quick fear fly along.

"It is a great pity that he of blessed memory cannot behold me thus," muttered Madame Caraman to herself; "he would, no doubt, have rejoiced over me."

Now the town was reached, and Clary adopted a more moderate pace, while she and her companion turned into Troailles Street. Before a palace-like house a halt was made, and through Madame Caraman's head passed suddenly a correct supposition.

"Ah, we intend then to pay a visit to the firm of Mortimer & Co.," said she, with surprise; "a strange hour, and the bank will probably not be open yet."

Clary did not mind the remark, and she ordered the groom to get down from his horse and to knock. John, being used to obey punctually the orders of his young mistress, knocked with both fists at the closed gates, and Clary nodded her consent to it.

"Listen, Clary," said Madame Caraman, suddenly; "there is dancing in the house."

Indeed they could now plainly hear the sound of excellent music, and in the well lighted windows of the first story one could perceive here and there something like light shadows passing by.

Ere Clary could answer, the porter appeared and opened the gates, asking the pleasure of the cavalcade.

"Tell your master," said Clary, imperiously, "that I wish to speak to him at once."

"Oh, dear, that is impossible," stuttered the servant, stupefied; "the office is closed, and will only be opened again to-morrow morning at eight o'clock."

The porter was now ready to lock the gates again, but John had already, at a wink from his mistress, placed his horse between the gates, and, good or bad, they had to be left open.

"Please ask your master to be kind enough to come down at once," said Mademoiselle Ellis, peremptorily.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle, do you belong to the ball guests?" asked the man, shyly.

"Ah, is there a ball in the house?"

"Yes, mademoiselle; Mortimer & Co. give their only daughter in marriage to-day; if, then, mademoiselle is invited?"

"No."

"Then mademoiselle came upon business matters?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Then I am really sorry that I cannot announce mademoiselle; my orders are very strict."

"You refuse to obey me?"

"I regret very much, but—"

"In this case I must myself try to procure a hearing. Back!"

Ere the frightened porter could hinder it, Clary had given the horse the spurs and they crossed the threshold. Madame Caraman followed courageously, and then they stopped in the midst of the vestibule, ornamented with exotic plants, candelabra, and various hangings of the richest and rarest description. A number of lackeys felt perplexed when they perceived so unexpectedly the beautiful horses stepping on the carpets placed in the fore-court; some dozens of hands were stretched out in order to stay the horses, but they played a wrong game.

Not in vain was an ancestor of Miss Clary victorious in a combat with the Highlanders; her grandfather as well as her uncle had manfully subdued Tippoo Sahib, and her father had carried the victory at the last Derby. With her horsewhip she frightened the intruders, and Clary gave her horse the spurs again; in a moment the young girl and her governess rode upstairs! In the hall where the ball was given the elite of the most elegant society in Marseilles were gathered together; all the notables which the English colony of that place could muster were there, as well as all those in high office, and also the moneyed aristocracy; in fact, everybody of standing felt glad to attend the marriage feast of the house of Mortimer & Co. Just now the sounds of a quadrille commenced, and the various pairs began to arrange themselves for the occasion, when the lackey in attendance was pushed aside and a horse's head looked inquisitively into the ball-room.

It was a horse, surely and truly a horse—there was no doubt about that! The animal that put its proud-holding head into the ball-room had a silver bit, and its fine, cunning eye rested quite astonished upon the elegant company; who also, almost petrified with astonishment, came to a general standstill.

The lady of the house broke into shrieks, while Mortimer with his hands prevented further intrusion.

And yet what he saw was after all not so terrible, for an exquisitely beautiful young lady sat gracefully on the four-footed intruder, and a pair of provocative eyes shone brightly under a riding hat ornamented with rich feathers.

The wife of Lot, however, could not have been more torpid than the company in Palais Mortimer, especially when behind the first horse's head a second one appeared, and Madame Caraman became visible.

Mortimer thought he was dreaming. Was his ball-room then turned into a riding-school?

Miss Ellis did not give him much time to become horrified; she bowed politely before the banker, and said:

"Mr. Mortimer, if you please, I have to speak to you!"

Well, although the banker was an Englishman he was not a friend of horses, and while he with some anxiety looked at the splendid horse and its rider, Clary's animal forgot its manners so far that it commenced without the least ceremony to scrape upon the heavy carpet as if it were in Hyde Park or Rotten Row, and also Madame Caraman's horse neglected the rules of etiquette in that manner that the trainers of his youth deserve punishment for having only partly fulfilled their duty.

The dancing pairs stood, as far as it could be accomplished, quite safe in the background, and the older ladies and gentlemen quietly returned thanks to God, that it was Mr. Mortimer's house, and not theirs, in which this scene was played.

"Mr. Mortimer," Clary began anew, "please come this way."

The banker so far overcame his timidity that he put his eyeglass closer to his eye in order to look more exactly at the horses and their riders; and as soon as he recognized Clary he came forth resolutely. Oh, one is not a banker for nothing, and one knows what wealth amounting to a million pounds sterling really signifies!

Mr. Mortimer forgot that two horses were in his ball-room destroying his carpets; he forgot that hundreds of eyes were turned expectantly toward him, and, waiting for the moment when he would show the bold intruders to the door. He made a low bow to Clary and inquired almost submissively:

"I am at your service, Miss Ellis."

"I have to speak to you, Mr. Mortimer; the affair cannot be put off."

"I am ready for you," and pointing to the left, he continued: "Pray will you kindly accompany me to my office?"

"With pleasure, but I should first like to leave the saddle."

Ready to serve, the banker assisted the ladies to descend from their horses and walked in front of them to the office. The governess found the whole affair very amusing, and when Clary whispered to her to order John to take the horses in the yard, she nodded quite pleased; it was almost more interesting than a romance.

In the meantime Mr. Mortimer's partner had risen from the whist-table, and wishing to be of some assistance, he saw that the horses in the stable were properly cared for, and then waited patiently to be called by his partner.

This, however, did not immediately take place. Mr. Mortimer sat with his beautiful customer, for as such he considered Clary, whose bills he honored, and when she attempted some excuses for her "peculiar" intrusion, he replied smilingly:

"If anybody is possessed of wealth such as Mademoiselle Clary can boast of, every eccentricity is excusable."

"I am exceedingly obliged," said Clary laughing. "I should nevertheless not have chosen this course except through necessity. But in order to return to our business, I have to inform you of my demands."

"No doubt: in the first instance, money! How much do you stand in need of?"

"Am I at liberty to draw upon you for the sum of two hundred and fifty thousand francs, Mr. Mortimer?"

"Pooh! a mere bagatelle; to-morrow morning it is at your disposal."

"To-morrow morning? No, Mr. Mortimer, I am in want of it at once."

"At once, mademoiselle? Impossible! The bank is closed."

"Then order it to be opened."

"But this is against the rules of our establishment!"

"You will have to deviate from this rule on my account, unless you prefer to decline altogether to do business with me. Mr. Bradwood will, no doubt, be ready to take your place!"

Bradwood, the rival, the bete noire of the banking-house of Mortimer & Co.

Mr. Mortimer's hair stood on end. No, that can and dare not be. Should he erase from his books the name of Lord Ellis of Crainburton? It would be a crime to think of such a thing! The transaction was certainly opposed to all rule and law; it was eleven o'clock in the evening, and at a time of the celebration of a festival, but what was to be done? Mr. Mortimer wrote a line, rang the bell, and when the servant entered gave him the note to deliver to Mr. Edwards.

Mr. Edwards was the bridegroom, and if he said yes, then the banker would also say the same.

"Your wish will be complied with, mademoiselle," said he, obligingly. "Have you, perhaps, any further requests to make?"

"Not very many—only mere bagatelles. I depart to-morrow morning for Algiers," said Clary, with indifference, as if speaking about taking a walk somewhere.

"For Algiers? H'm! the country is not bad, but the Frenchmen do not know much of colonization."

Madame Caraman opened her eyes very wide; she began to understand.

"I depart to-morrow morning early!" Clary coolly repeated.

Mortimer put his finger thoughtfully across his forehead.

"At daybreak, mademoiselle? Are you sure of it that to-morrow morning a vessel sails for that port? I am well acquainted with the departures of the various steamers—"

"And you know, therefore, that none of them sails for Algiers," interrupted Clary, laughing.

"Well, then?" asked the banker in an animated manner.

"Well, then, just on that account I have been looking for you."

"Looking for me?"

"Yes, indeed, you know all ship-brokers, and you will easily be able to help me out of my difficulties."

"But I do not exactly understand."

"Dear me, I am not speaking in the Coptic dialect!" exclaimed Clary, laughing. "I intend sailing to-morrow morning for Algiers. I have no vessel, and for that reason you will have to get me one."

"What? You desire a vessel—"

"Yes, yes. I am in want of a ship with captain, mate, sailors and boys—in short, with everything necessary for such an undertaking. To-morrow morning the ship, with steam up, must be ready for sailing, at the wharf of Marseilles. And now, please consider the matter; I am willing to allow you five minutes to do so."

The banker thought he was dreaming. Was it possible for anybody to demand of him, of the firm of Mortimer & Co., a complete, well-equipped steamer as if he could shake it out of his sleeve?

"Three minutes have already passed," reminded Clary, threatening with her finger.

Mortimer was scratching his forehead almost despairingly. It was close upon midnight, all offices closed. Where could he procure a vessel?

"The five minutes have passed," said Clary, coolly, rising to her feet.

Madame Caraman breathed more easily when she took hold of the door-handle; now the nonsensical plan was defeated.

"Pray do not trouble your cashier any further," remarked Clary, standing on the threshold. "I shall find somewhere else what I am in need of."

"But, mademoiselle," groaned Mortimer, before whose eyes Bradwood's figure appeared like a spectre, "you are demanding impossibilities of me."

"Mr. Mortimer," said Clary, with indifference, "two hundred years ago one of my ancestors pointed to the city of Edinburgh and said to his captain:

"'In two hours I desire to dine at the bishop's palace in Edinburgh!'

"The city was fortified, and from the walls the cannons spread their deadly fire; but the captain did not say it was impossible, but he inquired:

"'What does your lordship desire to have for dinner?'

"Two hours later my ancestor dined in the bishop's palace; the captain, of course, lost his life in the combat. Come, Madame Caraman."

"With pleasure," replied the governess, and both ladies left the office.

"Mademoiselle," sounded despairingly behind them.

"Well?" asked Clary, stopping.

"I do not promise for certain," stammered Mortimer, "but I believe—"

"Vessel, captain, mate, and sailors."

"Yes, dear me, yes," groaned Mortimer, dropping exhausted into a chair.

"And to-morrow at daybreak—"

"It will, no doubt, be possible to comply with your request."

"Especially be careful in selecting a captain; and the broker will have to sell me the ship."

"This transaction also will be carried out."

"Well, then, please arrange everything; my time is very limited."

Madame Caraman gazed despairingly at the banker; he was really ready to lend his hand to such a stupid affair?

"No, I do not give my permission," she at length resolutely declared. "I have obligations toward Lord Ellis, and I object to it."

Clary took the governess's head, kissed her heartily, and whispered to her:

"Be persuaded, Mamma Caraman. I desire it, and therefore we depart."

Submitting to Providence, she bent her head down; she was consoled.

"Do not lose time, Mr. Mortimer," she then said, respectfully, "it has to be."

Now a slender-built man, with rosy cheeks and red beard, entered the office; it was the bridegroom.

"Here is the amount required," said he, handing the banker a packet of bank-notes.

"Are the bank-notes legal tender in Algiers?" asked Clary.

Father-in-law and son-in-law looked upon her pitifully; they were Bank of England notes, which even a Greenlander would expect to have cashed on sight.

"Edwards," said the banker, vivaciously, "is Wharton in the ball-room?"

"Yes, father."

"Tell him to come here directly."

"Who is Wharton?" asked Clary.

"The only man I can trust to leave a ball at midnight to get a ship ready for sailing. It will be a dear affair though."

Clary laughed.

"Mr. Mortimer, am I rich enough to pay this Wharton?"

"Oh, with your fortune you could buy a thousand Whartons."

"And he will do all I ask of him?"

"Yes."

"Good! Wharton is my man. One thing more, Mr. Mortimer. You have the confidence of my family. I will give you a power of attorney to do with my fortune what you wish in case—"

"In case?"

"I do not return from Algeria."

"Oh, mademoiselle!" exclaimed Mortimer, with emotion. "Are you going to run such dangers?"

"I do not say that, but business is business, and I always like to have things in order."

"Here is Mr. Wharton," said the son-in-law.

The person who entered was a man of herculean stature. His thick head was covered with bushy red hair.

Clary looked curiously at the giant.

"Are you an Englishman, Mr. Wharton?" she asked.

"No, an American from Baltimore, miss, and your humble servant."

"Mademoiselle," interrupted Mortimer, "will you please explain to Mr. Wharton the nature of the business?"

"Willingly. Will you take a seat, please?"

"Thank you," replied the Yankee, "I prefer to stand."

"Mr. Wharton, you have a ship at anchor at Marseilles?"

"A ship, no, a pearl—the Crocodile—which is famous all over the world for its stanchness and rapidity."

"You own it?"

"Yes."

"How much did it cost you, Mr. Wharton?"

"How much did it cost me? That is a peculiar question," muttered the American.

"Captain," said Clary, rising, "I am rich, very rich. I am going to make you a proposition, and hope you will accept it. What price do you ask for the Crocodile?"

"But the Crocodile is not for sale. I would rather die than give up my ship."

The captain paced up and down the room with giant strides and struck his forehead with his fist. The proposition, together with the liquors he had drunk, excited him.

"Let us say 100,000 francs," said Clary.

The captain continued to strike his forehead.

"One hundred and twenty thousand francs."

The strokes became weaker.

"A good business," said Mortimer.

"And you shall not be separated from your beloved Crocodile," said Clary, laughingly; "for as soon as I become the owner of the vessel, I shall make you its captain."

"I'll accept the offer."

"Good; Mr. Mortimer will pay you the money."

"Willingly," said the banker, "as soon as everything is arranged."

"That shall be done at once," exclaimed the giant, gleefully; "and, miss, give me your hand to bind the bargain."

The young girl became frightened; if the giant were to grasp her slender fingers he might crush them, and yet she knew that the shake of the hand was the usual mode sailors chose to bind a bargain. Hesitatingly she held forth her hand, but Wharton, who guessed her anxiety, laid his fist in hers in as gentle a manner as possible. The girl laughed and said:

"Captain, have steam up at once!"

"Yes, miss; but the ball?"

"The ball is a secondary matter. You are my captain, and, naturally—"

"You are right. I didn't care for the ball, anyhow. It was only the fine brandy I thought of."

"I will tell Mr. Mortimer to let you have a few bottles. Captain, when does the sun rise to-morrow?"

"At 6.18 A.M."

"Good; at 6.19 you can depart."

"You will be satisfied with me. You have got a good captain, a boatswain and eight sailors. I am the smallest of the lot. Where are we going to, anyway?"

"To Algiers, captain. There is one thing more I wish to say."

"Speak, commodore."

"Have you noticed a yacht in the harbor? the flag is a gold mountain on a red field."

"Yes, the little peanut-shell," he said, disdainfully, "which is called the Ice Bird."

"Yes, the Ice Bird. This peanut-shell, as you call it, starts to-morrow morning for Algeria. Whether it intends to stop at Bona or Algiers I do not know. You would do well to find out."

"I will do so," said Wharton.

"Then good-by, and remember to-morrow."

When the ladies rode home the governess sighed.

"Oh, miss, what will Lord Ellis say?"

"That my brother has now a chance to come into the inheritance," laughed Miss Clary.



CHAPTER XLV

MALDAR

Haydee and Mercedes were seated in a magnificently furnished boudoir, engaged in a lively conversation. Spero's dark head lay in his mother's lap. They were both talking of their beloved ones. Mercedes said, that if Albert died her life would be at an end. Haydee only thought of Spero.

Spero, too, thought about the seriousness of his position, and was in this, as in other things, far in advance of his age. He felt deep despair at the idea of a separation from his mother, but the halo which surrounded his father gave the boy courage.

Six o'clock had now struck. Haydee's arm clung tighter to Spero, and a tear fell upon the youth's dark locks.

Monte-Cristo softly opened the door and entered. His face looked pale and careworn. Spero ran to meet his father. The count took him in his arms and softly asked:

"Are you ready, my son?"

"Yes, father," replied Spero, simply; "where you go, I follow."

Haydee hurriedly dried her tears as Monte-Cristo drew nearer. She clung to his bosom, and whispered:

"Am I to lose you both? If I only knew when you were going to return."

The count turned to Mercedes.

"Mercedes," he said to Albert's mother, "you see I do not shrink from any sacrifice when it is a question of duty. Love my Haydee and console her. She needs it."

"I swear it," replied Mercedes, solemnly; and, clasping Haydee in her arms, she added: "There is still time, Haydee; tell me, 'My husband and my child should stay here,' and I shall acquiesce in it."

"You hear her words, Haydee," said Monte-Cristo, casting an anxious look at Ali Tebelen's daughter. "What is your answer?"

Haydee's beautiful face was illuminated with a halo as she took Spero's arm and led him to his father.

"Be worthy of him," she whispered, with emotion.

Mercedes sank sobbing at the young wife's feet, and exclaimed:

"Now I shall get my son back again; I feel it."

The count finished all his preparations and chose the best weapons. He went with Spero to the dock the next morning, and was met by Jacopo, who looked like a different person.

"Have you inspected everything?" asked Monte-Cristo of the Corsican. "And are you satisfied?"

"Yes, master."

"How many men have you?"

"Ten, sir; they are all trustworthy and have travelled in Africa before. I can answer for them."

"Good. Ah! there you are, Coucou," said the count, turning to the Zouave. "I am glad that you are punctual."

The count inspected the yacht and expressed his delight to Jacopo.

The Crocodile was also lying, ready to sail, in the harbor. Wharton, confident of overtaking the Ice Bird, paced up and down the deck, rubbing his hands and from time to time casting contemptuous glances at the yacht.

From all the towers of Marseilles the seventh morning hour was rung. The count gave the signal for the departure, and the Ice Bird glided gracefully through the waters.

Monte-Cristo stood on deck looking back at France, where a part of his heart was left behind.

He had been talking with Spero for over an hour about their future plans, when a sudden commotion was heard, and the count, who was a strict disciplinarian, looked angrily about. Before he had time to inquire about the cause of the noise, a heavy mass came rolling down the cabin stairs. The count opened the door and saw the Zouave and another strange looking person, lying like a ball of cord on the floor. They both rose, but the Zouave would not let go of the other's throat at any price. The stranger was dressed in rags, and his thin, haggard face and glaring eyes made a disagreeable impression.

"What is the meaning of this, Coucou?" asked the count, angrily.

"Captain," the Zouave breathlessly replied, "I know I did wrong, but I could not help it. Just look at the face of this fellow."

Monte-Cristo looked searchingly at the man.

"Where did you pick him up?" he asked of the Zouave.

"In the engine room, close to the boiler. His brain must be half roasted already."

A cloud passed over the count's face.

"Who are you?" he said, turning to the stranger.

The man remained motionless. It was plain he did not understand the question.

The count now saw that the man was an Arabian, and repeated the question in that tongue.

"I am a poor man," the stranger submissively replied.

"How did you get to the ship?"

The Arabian was silent.

Monte-Cristo looked at the man again, and soon comprehended that the man was a hypocrite and an impostor.

Either the man was poor and had no money to go back to his home or else he was a spy.

"You were in France?" the count suddenly said to the Arabian; "how did you get there?"

"In one of the ships of your nation."

"How long ago is that?"

"Woe to him who counts the days and hours."

"Why did you not come to me? Were you afraid I would refuse to take you on board?"

"Was I to beg?" asked the Arabian, disdainfully.

"What would you do if I were to put you adrift in a bark?"

"Allah is great!"

Coucou understood enough of Arabian to comprehend the pride which lay in the stranger's words. He would have given anything to have been able to carry out the count's threats; he advanced a step, but Monte-Cristo saw his intention and motioned him back.

"Man," he said to the Arab, "you did wrong to put yourself in my power. Nevertheless, I shall be hospitable to you. Go!"

Turning to Coucou, he said:

"This man is my guest, and as such he must be sacred to you."

The Arab bowed, put his hand to his forehead, and turned toward the stairs.

"One question more," said the count; "what is your name?"

"I am called Maldar."

"You said you were poor, and yet your name signifies riches."

"He whom Allah protects is rich," replied the Arab, in veiled tones.



CHAPTER XLVI

MISS CLARY'S SECRET

For any one else but Miss Clary Ellis, it would be no small matter to make such a journey; but she knew no fear, and in spite of the frail expression of her face, there was no hindrance she could not overcome when she wished to carry out a project. Her governess murmured when she ordered her to get everything ready. According to her it was madness to go to a "monkey-land," as she termed Africa. But Miss Clary paid no attention to her, but went right on packing her trunks, and at four o'clock she was all ready.

She now called for John. This paragon of a servant would rather have cut off his tongue and hands than ask a question.

"John," said Clary, "have the horses harnessed."

"Yes, my lady."

"See that these trunks are carried down to the carriage."

"Yes, my lady."

"We shall leave Marseilles."

"Yes, my lady."

"We go to Algeria; if you have any preparations to make, do so."

"Yes, my lady."

Had John been told that they were to start on a voyage to the moon, he would have answered in his stereotyped way: "Yes, my lady."

Five minutes later the carriage was at the door.

"It is serious, then," sighed the governess. "We are going to Algeria, then. Do you know, Clary, I have been weak to give in so?"

Clary did not reply, and Madame Caraman, encouraged by her silence, continued:

"Suppose an accident should happen to you, I would not survive the blow, for I love you. Wait another day, and if you still persist in your determination, I am satisfied."

When the governess had ended, Clary offered her her hand, and mockingly said:

"If you do not survive the shock of my death, you will not have to answer for it."

"No, no; prove to me that I am wrong."

"God forbid! You are right; but nevertheless—"

"Stick to your plan, then; but suppose I do not accompany you?"

"It would cause me great grief, but could not alter my resolution. I am young, Madame Caraman, very rich, and wish to enjoy life for once—no one loves me—"

"Ah, Clary, you have a heart of gold," sobbed Madame Caraman.

"Accompany me to Algeria, Madame Caraman; I need your consolation and comforting care. I go there to perform a good action."

Madame Caraman looked keenly at Clary. The latter blushed, and continued:

"Mercedes deplores the loss of her son, and I desire to restore him to her if it is possible. Think what joy will be mine if Albert flies to the arms of his mother and I can proudly say: 'This is my work.'"

The governess pondered deeply, and Clary, who was deceived by her silence, impetuously exclaimed:

"Mamma Caraman, answer me. Have I not expressed myself clearly? I have never been of service to any one. Yet, while there are people who offer up their lives and their energies to help others, is it a sin for me to desire to do likewise?"

"You mean, by that, the Count of Monte-Cristo?" replied Madame Caraman, thoughtfully.

Clary blushed.

"Yes," she said, softly. "The count is my model."

"And you wish to follow this 'model' to Africa?"

"There is a good deed to be done there, and I, who have nothing to lose, shall follow him."

Madame Caraman looked smilingly at her.

"I see," she said, simply, "there is nothing to be done but to let you have your way."

Clary had expected more resistance. She burst into tears, and threw her arms around Madame Caraman's neck, and the governess tenderly kissed the young girl.

John now opened the door, and told them the carriage was ready.

"Forward!" exclaimed Madame Caraman, cheerfully, "and let us pray to God that we return again in good health."

On the way to the harbor, Clary wept silently. Madame Caraman wisely kept her thoughts to herself.

"I was once young myself," she muttered to herself, "and I know how it looks in an eighteen-year-old girl's heart. Yes, if I were twenty years younger, I don't know but that I would fall in love with this Count of Monte-Cristo myself."

Had Madame Caraman discovered Clary's secret?



CHAPTER XLVII

AN AMERICAN WAGER

Jack Wharton was not one of those men who mean something else than what they say. His whole vocabulary was either "Yes" or "No," just as the circumstances were. When Clary arrived at the harbor at seven o'clock, she found a troop of giants awaiting her, who stood in line like Prussian grenadiers. Wharton moved his hat, and said:

"You see, my lady, we are punctual."

"I did not expect anything else," Clary simply replied, "and please see that my luggage is carefully brought on board—and nothing broken," she added, as she cast a glance at the broad forms of the sailors.

Wharton promised to carry out her orders faithfully.

"Have you never had any adventures, captain?" she asked. "I should like to know something about your wife."

"Mrs. Wharton is a pearl—she was a widow when I married her—"

"Ah!"

"Yes," continued Wharton, indifferently; "I ate up her first husband; he was a splendid fellow."

Saying which he opened the carriage door and assisted the ladies on board the boat. Clary, as she stood on deck, noticed a gold-colored flag flying from a staff.

"What does the color of that flag mean?" she asked.

"Ah, my lady, as our commodore has gold blond hair, I permitted myself to hoist up flags of the same color."

"Well, I must say," said Madame Caraman, "that beats Sir Walter Raleigh's gallantry; you know he placed his gold-embroidered mantle in the mud for Queen Elizabeth to walk upon."

At this moment a tall, lean figure as graceful as a mast loomed up on deck.

"Mrs. Wharton," said the captain, proudly.

Clary and her governess shuddered as they looked at Mrs. Wharton.

The copper-colored face of the woman looked like the broken hilt of a knife; her coal-black hair gleaming with oil was tied in a knot at the back of her head; the large mouth did not hide the still larger yellow teeth and the flat nose was bored with holes. Her ears were decorated with three gold rings apiece. Her dress consisted of a dark red skirt, fastened at the waist by a gold cord. Her decollete waist allowed the brown skin to be perceived, and her flat feet were inclosed in moccasins. Yet, in spite of Minnie Wharton's repulsive appearance, her husband loved her.

As soon as Mrs. Wharton saw the two ladies she invited them, in a voice which sounded like the croak of a raven, to her cabin. They were both astonished when they entered it to find it a beautifully furnished boudoir, whose silk hangings and bric-a-brac made it look more like a parlor of the Faubourg St. Germain than a ship's cabin.

"The ladies will excuse me," said Minnie, "but the time was short and I could do no better."

"You do not mean," exclaimed Clary, surprised, "that you did everything during the night?"

"The captain did not get back until midnight, and I hurriedly purchased the things in the stores of Marseilles."

Clary thought it was a tale out of the "Arabian Nights."

Wharton had thought it a question of honor to show the young lady that she had not paid too dearly for the Crocodile, and had he been able to take down the moon, he would have hung it as a night-lamp in her cabin. The captain and his wife had scoured the shops of Marseilles at one in the morning and bought all the things, paying dearly for them. The room of Madame Caraman was also a model of neatness. Next to the bed stood a small table, upon which was a silver service with a bottle of brandy on it. Madame Caraman was delighted, and when her sense of smell detected the fine quality of the brandy, she was almost moved to tears.

A head appeared in the doorway, and the captain said:

"My lady, the Ice Bird left ten minutes ago, and five minutes later the Crocodile lifted anchor."

"Good, captain. You are sure of being able to over-take the Ice Bird?"

"Leave that to me, my lady."

The captain now thought that the time for dining had come, and invited the ladies into a charming little room.

"Captain, you are a magician," exclaimed the young girl, laughing. "Such a beautiful dining-room, and flowers too," she added, as she perceived a huge bank of flowers.

"Oh, what lovely flowers," she exclaimed delightedly.

"Mrs. Wharton is the magician, my lady," replied the captain; "and now please be seated."

"Directly," replied Clary laughing; "but first permit me to beg your wife and yourself to join us."

Two more covers were placed on the table.

The breakfast was a substantial English meal, and consisted of tea, coffee, eggs and ham. They were all tasty dishes. The conversation was very lively until Mrs. Wharton arose and begged to be excused as she had other duties to perform.

"Ah, my Minnie is a pearl," murmured Wharton, looking tenderly back at her.

"You seem to be much attached to each other," said Clary, cordially.

"Oh, my lady, how could it be otherwise? We have not been separated from each other since twenty years; we have common remembrances which we can never forget."

"If I am not mistaken, you said before that Mrs. Wharton was a widow?"

"Yes, the widow of a Sioux."

"And did she belong to the same tribe?"

"Yes, my lady, but she is long since a Christian."

"And who was her husband?"

"A Sioux, poor Tu-Sam-Ba."

"And how did he die, you say?"

"I ate him up, my lady."

"Ah, really?"

"Yes," said Wharton, sorrowfully; "his wife and I ate him up, and through this circumstance Minnie became a widow."

Natural as it seemed to the captain, Madame Caraman gazed in open horror, and as soon as she could recover the use of her tongue, she asked for explanations.

The captain was not loth to tell his story, and just as he was settling himself comfortably in a chair, Clary exclaimed:

"Before you begin, captain, take a look at the yacht."

"I shall," said Wharton, "but you can rest easy and trust in the Crocodile."

The captain disappeared, and Madame Caraman, turning to Clary, said:

"We have come among strange people."

"We had no other choice, and we might have fared worse."

"Well, I'm much obliged for the consolation—cannibals!"

Clary was silent. What could she have answered?

In about ten minutes the captain returned out of breath.

"Think of it," he said; "these stupid firemen have not put on enough steam, and when I came on deck—"

"The Ice Bird was far away," interrupted Clary.

"I cannot deny it, but it will be all right."

"And your promise?"

"Ah, my lady, I would like to make you a wager."

"A wager?"

"Yes, that when we arrive at Bona, the Ice Bird will not be visible."

"Good."

"And now let me continue with the story of my marriage—"

"Oh, yes; I should like to know more about your wedding supper," said Madame Caraman.

The captain lighted a cigar and began:

"In the first place, ladies, you must know that I have not always been rich. I have not got a million yet, but I am in comfortable circumstances, so to speak. Twenty-five years ago I had not a dollar in the world. I did everything, but could not succeed in anything. In November, 1825, I was absolutely penniless, and one of my comrades, Dick Merton, who was as badly off as myself, made a proposition to me to go to California. At that time California was still hardly explored.

"'I will go along,' I said, in answer to Dick's proposition.

"'You know the peril, Jack,' he replied. 'You might be in danger of being captured by the Indians and eaten up.'

"At any other time, and under different circumstances, I might have hesitated, but my position was a desperate one, and I accepted. The next day, armed to the teeth, we started. We were eight when we started. When we reached San Francisco only five of us were left. One was killed by the bite of a snake, and the rest fell down the precipices of the Rocky Mountains. At that time none of the comforts and luxuries to be found there to-day existed. We worked with pick and axe, and stilled our hunger with the wild animals we killed. Two weeks later trouble arose in the camp. Some of our party maintained that we had chosen a bad place, because the gold did not pan out as well as they had hoped. Others again persisted in upholding the spot selected. The upshot of the matter was, that we parted. I and two others remained, the rest departing in a westerly direction.

"We built a block-house. It was situated under the shadow of a gigantic cedar-tree and protected us from the wind and rain. All went along swimmingly until one day I heard a yell of joy from Dick. I ran toward him, and to my surprise I saw a vein of gold, which, at a superficial calculation, must be worth a million dollars. We danced about for joy. Very soon Osborne, our third companion, came. We returned to our hut, and after drinking a large quantity of whiskey in honor of the event, we went to bed. As usual, we were fully dressed with our weapons in our hands ready for any emergency. How long I slept I do not know, but I was suddenly awakened by a loud yell, which still rings in my ears. Starting up, I looked around and beheld Osborne staring with wide-open mouth at something which lay in a corner.

"'What is the matter?' I asked.

"Osborne did not reply, but pointed to a corner near the door. I looked in the direction indicated, and by the dim light of the lamp saw to my horror—a rattlesnake. I looked around for Dick; he was leaning against the wall, his face ghastly pale. Before I was aware of it Dick had kicked in the strong door. Osborne must have had the same idea for he too rushed for the door. They both reached the threshold at the same time.

"The door was too narrow to allow them both to pass; Dick seized Osborne by the throat; a struggle ensued, and the next minute Osborne sank to the ground with Dick's bowie-knife plunged up to the hilt in his breast. The snake, aroused by the noise, sprang up and struck Dick a deadly blow.

"In a moment he was in convulsions."

Wharton paused. The perspiration stood on his forehead and the muscles of his lips twitched. Clary buried her face in her hands, and Madame Caraman prevented herself from fainting by taking a glass of brandy.

"I beg your pardon, ladies," the captain proceeded, "but the memory of that awful time overcame me. I am no coward, but the terrible sight unmanned me. The rattlesnake looked at me with its hideous eyes. The fear of death nerved me, and seizing my gun I discharged it full at the monster and then lost consciousness. When I recovered next morning and saw the dead bodies of Dick and Osborne I broke into tears."

"Captain," interrupted Clary, "your tale is so interesting that one is apt to forget, but—"

"But what?" asked Wharton expectantly.

"I am anxious to know how many knots the Crocodile is making."

"Ah! I was not thinking of that. I am sure of my ship."

"So much the better; let us go on deck."

"And my story?"

"Can be continued later on; I am to know yet how the Indian's widow became your wife."

Wharton preceded the ladies to the deck. He knew his ship and had no fears. The weather was magnificent and the vessel's sails were swelled by the breeze. Clary looked in every direction to catch a glimpse of the Ice Bird, but could not see it.

"Captain, where is the Ice Bird?" she said, turning to Wharton.

"The Ice Bird? It's far behind. How could it compare in speed with the Crocodile?"

"Are you sure of it?"

"Yes, my lady."

"Please ask one of the sailors!"

Wharton did so, and was astonished when he was told that the "peanut-shell," as he called the Ice Bird, made twenty-three knots an hour, whereas the Crocodile made only twelve. The long face he made at this announcement caused Clary to burst into a loud laugh.

"You see it is folly to attempt to overtake the Count of Monte-Cristo," said Madame Caraman to Clary; "if you follow my advice, return to Marseilles, where we can wait for news of the Ice Bird and—"

"Go back?" interrupted Clary. "Never!"

"But Monte-Cristo will arrive before us, and two hours after his arrival at Bona he will be on his way to the desert, and you do not intend to follow him there among the lions, tigers and jackals, do you?"

"Mamma Caraman, if you are afraid, you can go back to France," said Clary, gently.

Captain Wharton now came back.

"Well," said Clary to him, "what's to be done?"

"We will overtake the Ice Bird, and all of us will be at your service and not leave you until you discharge us yourself. Will that do?"

"Captain," said Clary, "I am afraid you are promising too much again."

"Oh, no; this time I am confident of success."

"But can you answer for your men?"

Wharton blew a whistle. All the crew appeared.

"Men," he said, turning to the sailors, "are you going to stand by me and follow me wherever the ship goes?"

"Yes!" they cried in chorus.

"Are you satisfied, my lady?" asked the captain, triumphantly.

"Yes."

"Where are we to go?" asked the captain.

"To the interior of Africa, in fact in the neighborhood of the Sahara."

"Good, commodore," replied the captain.

"The captain," she said, turning to the men, "shall pay you whatever you demand. All I ask of you is devotion."

"We swear it!" shouted the sailors, enthusiastically swinging their caps.

Mrs. Wharton approached the young lady and said:

"Have you forgiven the captain, miss?"

"Long since, Mrs. Wharton," replied Clary, grasping her hand.

Clary and Madame Caraman withdrew to their boudoir.

"Don't you think it rather dangerous to be in the society of these people?" asked Madame Caraman.

"Have no fear, Mamma Caraman; I answer for everything."

"One question more, dear child. What was the cause of your apparent indifference to-day, when you heard that the Ice Bird had distanced the Crocodile?"

Clary blushed deeply, and throwing her arms about Madame Caraman's neck, whispered:

"I confess it did not surprise me. I did not wish to wound Monte-Cristo by overtaking him."

"Monte-Cristo," murmured Madame Caraman; "ah, my darling, take care."



CHAPTER XLVIII

THE WEDDING BREAKFAST

The Crocodile sped swiftly along that day. Clary, who had become tired, went to sleep, while the governess sat in a chair near the bed and dreamed.

The night passed, and the next morning Clary asked the captain whether they were in sight of land.

"Yes," replied the captain.

"And how long will it be before we enter the harbor?"

"About two hours."

"Good. Let me make you a proposition. We can dine now, and you can tell us the conclusion of your story."

An hour later dinner was concluded, and the captain continued his narrative.

"At the moment I put foot on the threshold of the cabin I heard a peculiar noise, and at the same moment an arrow flew past my head and lodged itself in the door. Where had the arrow come from? What to do I knew not. Suddenly an inspiration came to me. The cabin was pretty solidly built, and the roof was constructed of thick canewood. Around the four sides were thick planks, which offered me shelter in case of an attack. That my enemies were Indians I felt sure. I locked the door, barricaded it from the inside, and felt sorry that the rattlesnake was dead, for it would have been a splendid weapon against the Indians. Going up to the roof, and lying flat on my stomach, I peered out. I shuddered when I saw my enemies. They were Indians of the worst kind. With the Sioux and Chippewas we had kept up friendly relations, but these were Arikaras, our bitterest foes. This tribe were deadly enemies of the whites, and the refined cruelty with which they tortured their prisoners made them feared by all. They were all armed with muskets, and numbered about fifty warriors. At the rear of the group I saw two Sioux. One was a man and the other a woman. The man was Tu-Sam-Ba; the woman, his wife, the 'Prairie Flower,' the present Mrs. Wharton. They seemed to be prisoners, and when I thought of the custom of the Arikaras to roast their prisoners alive, a thrill of horror ran through my veins. The attitude of the 'Prairie Flower' was so noble that she immediately won my heart. 'Either you or no one,' I thought, and firmly resolved to attempt the rescue of my angel."

The "angel" tried in vain to allay her husband's excitement. Madame Caraman could hardly restrain her laughter whenever she looked at the angel. Clary, on the other hand, preserved her gravity, and calmly said:

"I appreciate your feelings, captain; continue."

Wharton bowed profoundly and proceeded.

"The Arikaras surrounded the cabin, while I lay motionless, with my hand on the trigger of my gun. The savages now began to break in the door and soon effected an entrance. Immediately I heard a loud noise. They had discovered the two dead bodies and the rattlesnake. They thought the two whites had killed the rattlesnake, which is regarded as a sacred animal by them, and that Manitou, their god, had struck them dead. A place which Manitou visits is sacred to them, and I thought that they would leave the hut. An ugly Indian, who seemed to be the chief, commanded silence and delivered a long speech to his subjects. At its conclusion the Indians moved about and began to gather brushwood. They piled it in heaps on the floor of the cabin and the chief set fire to it. Presently the smell of burning flesh reached me. They were burning Dick and Osborne's bodies. At the same moment a bright flame licked the roof, my gun exploded in consequence of the heat, and, half dead with fright, I fell into the middle of the group. My fate was settled now. They surrounded me, bound me with cords, and with wild yells they rushed out bearing me along. I—"

"Captain," interrupted Clary, "don't you think we have reached Bona yet?"

"No," replied Wharton, vivaciously, "not before the next two hours."

Clary laughed loudly, and the captain saw that he had committed a blunder.

"I fainted," continued the captain, "and when I came to my senses it was pitch dark and I lay on the ground, bound hand and foot. By the flickering light of a camp-fire I saw the Arikaras sitting around and calmly smoking their pipes. Tu-Sam-Ba was tied to a post, while the Prairie Flower crouched at his feet. I determined to speak to the Indians, and gathering courage, I exclaimed in the English language:

"'Comrades, do you intend to let me starve? Have I done you any wrong?'

"'You are an enemy of our race. You killed the sacred serpent.'

"'Should I have waited then until it had killed me?'

"'You have killed,' exclaimed one redskin, 'and you will be killed in your turn.'

"The chief now claimed my scalp. It was awarded to him. While the redskins were carrying on a war-dance, I again lost consciousness. I did not awake until I felt a hand pressed lightly on my forehead. It was the 'Prairie Flower.'

"'Tu-Sam-Ba is dead,' she softly whispered; 'he was roasted. Arikaras surprised—escaped!'

"She raised me from the ground, and, carrying me in her arms as if I had been a child, she brought me to a glade in the forest.

"'I am hungry,' I said, pointing to my mouth.

"The woman looked at me for a moment in despair, and shrugged her shoulders to indicate to me that there was no hotel in the neighborhood."

At this point of the story Mrs. Wharton disappeared, and Madame Caraman took advantage of her absence to ask a question.

"Has Minnie changed much since that time?"

"Oh, yes," replied the captain, his face lighting up with pleasure, "she has grown much handsomer."

This was too much for Madame Caraman's composure, and, coughing loudly, she pressed a handkerchief to her lips and vanished through the door.

The captain looked wonderingly after her, and, turning to Clary, said:

"My lady, I had much rather be alone with you! Not every one is able to appreciate the sacrifice Mrs. Wharton made for me."

"Please continue your story."

"Suddenly," said Wharton, taking up the thread of his story, "the squaw vanished, but returned soon after with a package carefully enveloped in leaves. She removed the leaves, and, with a light sob, handed me several pieces of roasted meat.

"I took them eagerly and ate ravenously of the food, which was very tasty. Seeing her melancholy looks, I asked her to partake of some. She shook her head.

"'I am not hungry,' she softly murmured.

"'Then I shall not eat any more,' I declared.

"Seeing me determined, she hesitated no longer, and joined me in the meal. When we had finished, I asked her where she had procured the meat, and, with bowed head, she replied:

"'Tu-Sam-Ba roasted—Arikaras disturbed—did not eat—Tu-Sam-Ba, Sioux—my husband.'

"Good God! I had eaten her husband, and the Prairie Flower had not hesitated to serve him up roasted to me! My lady, is there anything in history equal to this!"

"No, I know of none," replied Clary, hurriedly.

"Ah, I knew it; I—"

"Captain," said a sailor, opening the door, "we are nearing the harbor of Bona."

Clary rose hastily; she felt as if a terrible burden had been lifted off her shoulders.

"Do you not approve of my marriage?" asked Wharton, anxiously; "she is a Sioux, but has become a Christian?"

"Certainly, I can understand your case perfectly."

Wharton went away and Clary was left behind. She pondered deeply, whether she had done right in trusting herself to the care of these cannibals.



CHAPTER XLIX

MALDAR'S FAREWELL

The Ice Bird flew like an arrow over the glistening waters, and in a few hours land was in sight. Monte-Cristo went on deck with his son, and was delighted at the latter's enthusiasm.

"Spero," he said, solemnly placing his hand on the boy's head, "in less than two hours you will set foot in a new world. Great dangers await you. Will you have the courage to brave them?"

"Oh, papa, when you are near me, I have no fear."

"Do not speak thus; circumstances may happen which may separate us. The desert is still unexplored, and the horrors of nature are not always the greatest dangers which threaten mankind."

"But why do you speak of such things, papa?" said Spero, terrified.

"Because I am not immortal. I may be conquered. Spero, look me in the eye, and swear to me that, should anything occur, you will not despair. You must never forget that you owe everything to your mother. Love her like one of those sainted women, for she deserves it."

"What do you fear, father?"

"Nothing. Rest easy, my son; I live and watch over you."

The next minute Monte-Cristo was giving his orders as usual to the sailors. Yet he was inwardly uneasy; a heavy load seemed to bear him down, and the air he breathed threatened to choke him.

And yet he was surrounded by faithful servants, who would willingly have given up their lives for him—Jacopo, Bertuccio, and Coucou. They were all ready to brave any danger, and the breast of each of them was a wall of protection about him.

The town rose before the gaze of the travellers. Monte-Cristo leaned against the prow, and gazed enthusiastically at the harbor where the Carthaginian barks had hidden Hannibal's plunder.

Suddenly Jacopo hurried on deck, and excitedly exclaimed:

"Master—come quickly—your cabin door is open."

"What of that?"

"The safe is open, too."

"Impossible!"

"Master, I saw with my own eyes the contents of the safe lying on the ground. Gold and diamonds are scattered about the floor."

Monte-Cristo frowned. Was there a thief on board?

"Come, Spero," he said, and, followed by Jacopo, father and son hurried to the cabin.

As the Corsican had said, the cabin was indeed open, and the carpet was strewn with emeralds, rubies, and other precious stones. Monte-Cristo at first examined the lock, the secret spring of which he alone knew how to open.

"It was not a thief who opened the safe," he said to Jacopo.

"But the jewels—"

"Just so. A thief would have taken them with him."

Jacopo was silent; the truth of this assertion was evident to him.

"Has any one besides you known about it?" asked Monte-Cristo, after a pause.

"No one, master; I called you directly."

"Good, Jacopo. Speak to no one about this matter."

"But, master; if we have a thief on board—"

Monte-Cristo frowned; he did not brook the least opposition.

"Go now, Jacopo, and keep quiet."

When Jacopo had gone, Monte-Cristo called Spero, and bade him examine the lock to see if he could discover anything.

Spero obeyed, but found nothing.

Monte-Cristo laughed.

"You are still young," he said. "Your eyes must first be taught how to see. There is a scratch on the lock which must have been made by a dagger."

"But, father, who could have tried to open the lock with a dagger?"

"A man, whose name I will tell you later on. With great skill he put the dagger in the lock and opened it. The cleverest locksmith could not have done better. Look!"

Monte-Cristo shoved the point of his own sword in the lock, and opened it easily.

"Really it is so," said Spero.

"And now let us look at the safe, which, I presume, was opened in the same way."

Spero looked carefully at the lock, and then said:

"It has not been opened with a dagger, I am sure of it."

"How do you know this?"

"I see it, papa; the man must have had a spiral spring."

"A spiral spring?"

"Yes; such as is used in pocket watches."

"You are right."

"And he did his work carelessly, for he left this little piece sticking in the lock." And with these words Spero triumphantly held up a small piece of steel.

Monte-Cristo clasped the boy in his arms. Spero was the worthy pupil of the man whose powers of observation had been sharpened during his intercourse with the Abbe Faria.

"And now you shall know who the man was that broke in here," said the count, pushing aside the diamonds which more than half filled the middle drawer of the safe. "Look here! what is this?"

"A dagger, father," said Spero, in affright.

"And on this dagger a piece of parchment is fastened."

Monte-Cristo carefully unrolled the scrap of paper and read the following, written with blood, in Arabian characters:

"Maldar to Monte-Cristo. The poor man who trusts in Allah is richer than the nobleman who fights against him. Beware of the Khouans!"

"Who are the Khouans, papa?"

"I shall tell you later on—there is no time to lose now. Come!"

Hurriedly going on deck with Spero, the count accosted Jacopo.

"When did the Arab leave the ship?" he asked.

"He is still here, master, in the custody of Coucou."

"Are you sure, Jacopo? Tell him to come to me."

Jacopo disappeared, but soon returned.

"Master," he said, "the Zouave is fast asleep."

"And the Arab?"

"Has disappeared."

"Really?"

"Yes, but we will find him. Come, now! Search every corner of the ship."

Monte-Cristo stopped the sailors.

"It is useless," he said, pointing to the shore, "look there!"

Maldar stood on the beach, shaking his fist angrily at the yacht.

"Comrades, listen," said Monte-Cristo, "the Arab is our deadly enemy. In Algeria every bush conceals a danger, every foot of ground carries an assassin! Do your duty, but look out for yourselves!"

The next minute the yacht reached the harbor—they were in Africa!



CHAPTER L

THE HOLY SIGNAL

At the southern end of the province of Oran, at the entrance to the Great Sahara, is the Salt Mountain, called by the Arabs Khenegel Melch. A solitary horseman rode slowly along the road. A white hood covered his head and a long gun was slung over his shoulder. Suddenly he halted and gazed around. On the left of him was the dark-red monolith called the Rock of Blood. Many murders had been committed at this place. On still nights faint groans are heard; they are like the cries of the spirits of the murdered ones, and the traveller who hears the sounds commends his soul to Allah and hurries away from the horrible spot. The solitary horseman threw back his hood from his face and lifted up his long thin arms in prayer. He sprang from his horse and examined the Rock of Blood carefully. On the stone near the base of the monolith was a star similar to those on his horse. The traveller prostrated himself on the ground, murmured a prayer and got on horseback again. The horse sped along like the wind, and was soon at the desert of the Great Sahara. Here all is light, not a shadow intercepts the rays of the sun, not a sound is heard here, all is silent. The horseman rode on, his eye gazing at the sun's disk, which was gradually setting. He did not seem to mind the glare, and upon a closer examination of his person one would have found this natural. He was scarred all over and appeared to have undergone every bodily ill. His bernouse flew aside and from the open breast the handle of a yataghan peeped; no cord or belt held it. It was attached to the man's skin. The man was a martyr. Not a part of his body was whole. He was a mass of cuts and bruises. His brothers called him a saint. He spoke to Allah and Allah listened to his speech. The desert was his empire, and a smile broke over his lips when he found himself on his territory. How he kept in his way without a path to guide him was a mystery. The sun had disappeared from the horizon. The man now rose in the stirrups and, taking his gun, laid his finger on the trigger. He seemed to be expecting something. Was it an enemy from heaven? His gun was pointed in that direction. The moon now rose pale and clear. A loud report was heard. The saint greeted the moon, and said these words from the Koran in a loud, firm voice:

"The time will come for those who are to appear before Allah's throne."

"The time has come," answered another voice.

"Swear by the wise Koran that you are sent to show the right road," continued the saint.

"I swear it by the wise Koran," replied the same voice.

"Are you he whom I expect?"

"I am he whom Allah sent."

"Have you the sacred signal?"

"Look!" replied the stranger, throwing his bernouse aside and showing his lean, naked breast, and on his brown breast shone a star with six points.

The saint got off his horse, kissed the ground, and muttered half aloud:

"Allah is Allah, and Mahomet is his prophet."

"Rise," said the other; "the true believer only kneels to Allah."

"Are you not Allah's messenger? Have you not come to chastise the infidel oppressors of the holy island?"

"I am he, but yet I say rise. The brothers know that I am here. They knew I would appear in the fourth month, at the hour when the moon rose before the setting sun had disappeared from the horizon. The brothers, then, have sent you?"

"Yes."

"Are they ready to obey the messenger of Allah? Are they ready to sacrifice their own and their wives' lives?"

"Look at me! I have torn my limbs with pincers. The brothers have done likewise. We are ready to obey."

"Then I say to you, Maldar Mohammed ben Abdallah, the hour for revenge has come. Death to the Giaours!"

He paused for a moment; then continued:

"Where are the Khouans?"

"At Uargla."

"Where are the Christian prisoners? Have my commands been obeyed?"

"Yes, master, not a hair of their heads has been touched; but the believers grumbled at showing them mercy and demanded their deaths, especially in the case of one, a French captain."

"What does a man's death signify—the drops of blood are lost in the sands, and their trails lost forever. Go tell the brothers that before the moon has reached its twentieth course, I shall be in their midst, and blood will flow in streams! Go!"

With an imperious wave of the hand Maldar pointed toward the horizon, and the Mekkadem prostrated himself anew.

"Yes," said Maldar to himself when the saint had gone, "they shall all die, and the stream of their blood will be the spring out of which Allah's warriors shall drink courage."



CHAPTER LI

UARGLA

Lost in the immensity of the desert, Uargla, the queen of the oases, was, up to thirty years ago, little known. On the day Maldar had conversed with the saint a dense mass of people crowded about one of the chief gates of Uargla, and loud voices arose in the air. A horrible monster, all tattered and torn, had swung himself on a pile of stones, and begun to harangue the crowd.

"You think you are acting wisely," he cried, "and yet you are only fools. In the prisons of Kiobeh you keep the enemies of Islam, and while you are pondering over the mysteries of the Koran, the infidel dogs are murdering your wives and children. Arise, believers of Islam, and kill the Giaours!"

The crowd yelled like savages.

For more than six months prisoners had been kept in the fortress, and in spite of all the protestations of the inhabitants, their lives had been spared. It was time, many thought, to kill them and expose their heads to the birds of prey. The marabout was right, they said, and the crowd demanded the lives of the unfortunates. The marabout was delighted at the effect of his words, and uttering a cry he sprang from his perch and disappeared in the crowd. He knew the excited fanatics would follow him to the Kiobeh, and while he was walking on he pictured to himself the agonies the victims would have to endure. They must all die for the glory of Allah. In their blind hatred of the Christians, the Aratins, whose deep black color is not found in any other tribe, allied themselves with the Arabs, the Soudanese with the Mozambites, and yelling and shouting and armed with knives, guns and daggers, the savages marched toward the Kiobeh. Woe to the unfortunates who fell victims to such blind fanaticism—woe to the prisoners who were pining away in the Kiobeh!



CHAPTER LII

CAPTAIN JOLIETTE

Twenty feet under the Kiobeh were the cells hewn out of the rock. In one of the darkest of these dungeons lay a young man with a ball and chain around his ankles. Rags covered the emaciated form of the man, and only from small strips of the rotten and withered clothing could it be seen that he wore the uniform of a French soldier. From the left shoulder part of an epaulet hung, and a scabbard without any sword in it was tied around his waist.

A dark form appeared in the doorway, shoved some food toward the prisoner, and disappeared without saying a word.

Ten years before the prisoner was the bearer of a proud name. Young, rich and courted, Albert de Morcerf was the lion of the Parisian salons and the joy of his parents. One day a crash came like lightning from a clear sky, and destroyed his whole existence. His father was denounced in the Chamber of Peers as a traitor and an assassin. Count de Morcerf could not defend himself, for what he was charged with was the truth. The Countess of Morcerf buried herself at Marseilles under the name of Madame Joliette, while her son entered the army of Algeria or Chasseurs d'Afrique. In three years Albert Joliette had become a captain. As he lay now in his cell the past rose before him. He recollected his insult and challenge to the Count of Monte-Cristo, and his subsequent apology when he had heard Mercedes' story. That day on coming home he discovered his father dead with a bullet in his brain, inflicted by his own hand.