“I am neither the Abbé Busoni nor Lord Wilmore,” said Monte Cristo; “think again⁠—do you not recollect me?”

There was a magic effect in the count’s words, which once more revived the exhausted powers of the miserable man.

“Yes, indeed,” said he; “I think I have seen you and known you formerly.”

“Yes, Caderousse, you have seen me; you knew me once.”

“Who, then, are you? and why, if you knew me, do you let me die?”

“Because nothing can save you; your wounds are mortal. Had it been possible to save you, I should have considered it another proof of God’s mercy, and I would again have endeavored to restore you, I swear by my father’s tomb.”