fixing an ace of clubs against the iron plate, with four shots he successively shot off the four sides of the club. At each shot Morrel turned pale. He examined the bullets with which Monte Cristo performed this dexterous feat, and saw that they were no larger than buckshot.
“It is astonishing,” said he. “Look, Emmanuel.” Then turning towards Monte Cristo, “Count,” said he, “in the name of all that is dear to you, I entreat you not to kill Albert!—the unhappy youth has a mother.”
“You are right,” said Monte Cristo; “and I have none.” These words were uttered in a tone which made Morrel shudder.
“You are the offended party, count.”
“Doubtless; what does that imply?”
“That you will