“I am alone,” said the abbé, “and I will again have pity on you, and will let you escape, at the risk of the fresh miseries my weakness may lead to, if you tell me the truth.”
“Ah, reverend sir,” cried Caderousse, clasping his hands, and drawing nearer to Monte Cristo, “I may indeed say you are my deliverer!”
“You mean to say you have been freed from confinement?”
“Yes, that is true, reverend sir.”
“Who was your liberator?”
“An Englishman.”
“What was his name?”
“Lord Wilmore.”
“I know him; I shall know if you lie.”
“Ah, reverend sir, I tell you the simple truth.”
“Was this Englishman protecting you?”
“No, not me, but a young Corsican, my companion.”
“What was this young Corsican’s name?”
“Benedetto.”
“Is that his Christian name?”
“He had no other; he was a foundling.”
“Then this young man escaped with you?”
“He did.”