bounded towards the door. Once or twice the thought crossed his mind that he might be separated from this unknown, whom he loved already; and then his mind was made up—when the jailer moved his bed and stooped to examine the opening, he would kill him with his water jug. He would be condemned to die, but he was about to die of grief and despair when this miraculous noise recalled him to life.
The jailer came in the evening. Dantès was on his bed. It seemed to him that thus he better guarded the unfinished opening. Doubtless there was a strange expression in his eyes, for the jailer said, “Come, are you going mad again?”
Dantès did not answer; he feared that the emotion of his voice would betray him.
The jailer went away shaking his head.
Night came; Dantès hoped that his neighbor would profit by the silence to address him, but he was mistaken.
The next morning, however, just as he removed his bed from the wall, he heard three knocks; he threw himself on his knees.
“Is it you?” said he; “I am here.”
“Is your jailer gone?”
“Yes,” said Dantès; “he will not return until the evening; so that we have twelve hours before us.”
“I can work, then?” said the voice.
“Oh, yes, yes; this instant, I entreat you.”