"No, no," cried Dantes; "you are mistaken -- you will not
die! And your third attack (if, indeed, you should have
another) will find you at liberty. We shall save you another
time, as we have done this, only with a better chance of
success, because we shall be able to command every requisite
assistance."

"My good Edmond," answered the abbe, "be not deceived. The
attack which has just passed away, condemns me forever to
the walls of a prison. None can fly from a dungeon who
cannot walk."

"Well, we will wait, -- a week, a month, two months, if need
be, -- and meanwhile your strength will return. Everything
is in readiness for our flight, and we can select any time
we choose. As soon as you feel able to swim we will go."

"I shall never swim again," replied Faria. "This arm is
paralyzed; not for a time, but forever. Lift it, and judge
if I am mistaken." The young man raised the arm, which fell
back by its own weight, perfectly inanimate and helpless. A
sigh escaped him.

"You are convinced now, Edmond, are you not?" asked the
abbe. "Depend upon it, I know what I say. Since the first
attack I experienced of this malady, I have continually
reflected on it. Indeed, I expected it, for it is a family
inheritance; both my father and grandfather died of it in a
third attack. The physician who prepared for me the remedy I
have twice successfully taken, was no other than the
celebrated Cabanis, and he predicted a similar end for me."

"The physician may be mistaken!" exclaimed Dantes. "And as
for your poor arm, what difference will that make? I can
take you on my shoulders, and swim for both of us."

"My son," said the abbe, "you, who are a sailor and a
swimmer, must know as well as I do that a man so loaded
would sink before he had done fifty strokes. Cease, then, to
allow yourself to be duped by vain hopes, that even your own
excellent heart refuses to believe in. Here I shall remain
till the hour of my deliverance arrives, and that, in all
human probability, will be the hour of my death. As for you,
who are young and active, delay not on my account, but fly
-- go-I give you back your promise."

"It is well," said Dantes. "Then I shall also remain." Then,
rising and extending his hand with an air of solemnity over
the old man's head, he slowly added, "By the blood of Christ
I swear never to leave you while you live."

Faria gazed fondly on his noble-minded, single-hearted,
high-principled young friend, and read in his countenance
ample confirmation of the sincerity of his devotion and the
loyalty of his purpose.

"Thanks," murmured the invalid, extending one hand. "I
accept. You may one of these days reap the reward of your
disinterested devotion. But as I cannot, and you will not,
quit this place, it becomes necessary to fill up the
excavation beneath the soldier's gallery; he might, by
chance, hear the hollow sound of his footsteps, and call the
attention of his officer to the circumstance. That would
bring about a discovery which would inevitably lead to our
being separated. Go, then, and set about this work, in
which, unhappily, I can offer you no assistance; keep at it
all night, if necessary, and do not return here to-morrow
till after the jailer his visited me. I shall have something
of the greatest importance to communicate to you."

Dantes took the hand of the abbe in his, and affectionately
pressed it. Faria smiled encouragingly on him, and the young
man retired to his task, in the spirit of obedience and
respect which he had sworn to show towards his aged friend.



Chapter 18
The Treasure.

When Dantes returned next morning to the chamber of his
companion in captivity, he found Faria seated and looking
composed. In the ray of light which entered by the narrow
window of his cell, he held open in his left hand, of which
alone, it will be recollected, he retained the use, a sheet
of paper, which, from being constantly rolled into a small
compass, had the form of a cylinder, and was not easily kept
open. He did not speak, but showed the paper to Dantes.

"What is that?" he inquired.

"Look at it," said the abbe with a smile.

"I have looked at it with all possible attention," said
Dantes, "and I only see a half-burnt paper, on which are
traces of Gothic characters inscribed with a peculiar kind
of ink."

"This paper, my friend," said Faria, "I may now avow to you,


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