“Pooh, pooh;” said the doctor, with the impiety usual in persons of his profession; “he is a churchman. God will respect his profession, and not give the devil the wicked delight of sending him a priest.”
A shout of laughter followed this brutal jest. Meanwhile the operation of putting the body in the sack was going on.
“This evening,” said the governor, when the task was ended.
“At what hour?” inquired a turnkey.
“Why, about ten or eleven o’clock.”
“Shall we watch by the corpse?”
“Of what use would it be? Shut the dungeon as if he were alive—that is all.”
Then the steps retreated, and the voices died away in the distance; the noise of the door, with its creaking hinges and bolts ceased, and a silence more sombre than that of solitude ensued—the silence of death, which was all-pervasive, and struck its icy chill to the very soul of Dantès.
Then he raised the flagstone cautiously with his head, and looked carefully around the chamber. It was empty, and Dantès emerged from the tunnel.