“Ah,” said he, “I hear a human voice.” Edmond had not heard anyone speak save his jailer for four or five years; and a jailer is no man to a prisoner⁠—he is a living door, a barrier of flesh and blood adding strength to restraints of oak and iron.

“In the name of Heaven,” cried Dantès, “speak again, though the sound of your voice terrifies me. Who are you?”

“Who are you?” said the voice.

“An unhappy prisoner,” replied Dantès, who made no hesitation in answering.

“Of what country?”

“A Frenchman.”

“Your name?”

“Edmond Dantès.”

“Your profession?”