“A surgeon, reverend sir—a surgeon!” said
“I have sent for one,” replied the abbé.
“I know he cannot save my life, but he may strengthen me to give my evidence.”
“Against whom?”
“Against my murderer.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“Yes; it was Benedetto.”
“The young Corsican?”
“Himself.”
“Your comrade?”
“Yes. After giving me the plan of this house, doubtless hoping I should kill the count and he thus become his heir, or that the count would kill me and I should be out of his way, he waylaid me, and has murdered me.”
“I have also sent for the procureur.”
“He will not come in time; I feel my life fast ebbing.”
“Wait a moment,” said Monte Cristo. He left the room, and returned in five minutes with a phial. The dying man’s eyes were all the time riveted on the door, through which he hoped succor would arrive.
“Hasten, reverend sir, hasten! I shall faint again!” Monte Cristo approached, and dropped on his purple lips three or four drops of the contents of the phial.