and I ask God and you how I can save her?”
Monte Cristo uttered a cry which those only can conceive who have heard the roar of a wounded lion.
“Unhappy man,” cried he, wringing his hands in his turn; “you love Valentine—that daughter of an accursed race!”
Never had Morrel witnessed such an expression—never had so terrible an eye flashed before his face—never had the genius of terror he had so often seen, either on the battlefield or in the murderous nights of Algeria, shaken around him more dreadful fire. He drew back terrified.
As for Monte Cristo, after this ebullition he closed his eyes as if dazzled by internal light.
In a moment he restrained himself so powerfully that the tempestuous heaving of his breast subsided, as turbulent and foaming waves yield to the sun’s genial influence when the cloud has passed.
This silence, self-control, and struggle lasted about twenty seconds, then the count raised his pallid face.
“See,” said he, “my dear friend, how God punishes the most thoughtless and unfeeling men for their indifference, by presenting dreadful scenes to their view. I, who was looking on, an eager and curious spectator—I, who was watching the working of this mournful tragedy—I, who like a wicked angel was laughing at the evil men committed protected by secrecy (a secret is easily kept by the rich and