“Only seventeen months,” replied Dantès. “Oh, you do not know what is seventeen months in prison!⁠—seventeen ages rather, especially to a man who, like me, had arrived at the summit of his ambition⁠—to a man, who, like me, was on the point of marrying a woman he adored, who saw an honorable career opened before him, and who loses all in an instant⁠—who sees his prospects destroyed, and is ignorant of the fate of his affianced wife, and whether his aged father be still living! Seventeen months’ captivity to a sailor accustomed to the boundless ocean, is a worse punishment than human crime ever merited. Have pity on me, then, and ask for me, not intelligence, but a trial; not pardon, but a verdict⁠—a trial, sir, I ask only for a trial; that, surely, cannot be denied to one who is accused!”

“We shall see,” said the inspector; then, turning to the governor, “On my word, the poor devil touches me. You must show me the proofs against him.”

“Certainly; but you will find terrible charges.”