Edmond Dantès
eyes upon the old Italian's countenance and saw it assume a deathly
pallor as he noticed that the needle of the compass could no longer be
depended on.
In an instant the Count was beside him and realized the extent of the
new evil that had befallen them.
"We can steer but by guess now," said Giacomo, in a low, hoarse whisper.
"God grant that we may be able to reach our destination."
As he spoke, a loud crash was heard, and the rudder, torn from its
fastenings by the violence of the tempest, swept by them, vanishing amid
the darkness. The man at the wheel gazed after it, uttering a cry of
despair.
"We are completely at the mercy of the wind and waves!" said
Monte-Cristo, in an undertone. "Can nothing be done?" he added,
hurriedly.
"Nothing, Excellency," returned the captain. "A temporary rudder might
be rigged were the sea calmer, but, boiling and seething as it is, such
a thing is utterly impossible."
A panic had seized upon the sailors as they witnessed the catastrophe
that rendered the Alcyon helpless, but this immediately gave place to
stupor, and the men stood silent and overwhelmed.
Bertuccio, from the time the dread storm had broken forth, had been
gloomy and uncommunicative; he had held persistently aloof both from
Monte-Cristo and the crew. In the general turmoil and confusion his
bearing and behavior had passed unnoticed even by the vigilant eye of
the Count.
The steward now approached his master, and, taking him aside, whispered
in his ear:
"Heaven's vengeance is pursuing the Alcyon and all on board because of
my crimes! I feel it--I know it!"
The steward's face was as white as a sheet, but his eye betokened fixed
resolution.
"Not another word of this," cried Monte-Cristo, sternly. "Should the
superstitious sailors hear you, they would demand with one voice that
you be cast into the boiling sea."
"And they would be right," rejoined Bertuccio, doggedly. "If I remain
where I am, the Alcyon's doom is sealed. On the other hand, the moment
you are rid of me the storm will cease as if by magic, and you will be
saved."
"Be silent!" commanded Monte-Cristo. "You are a Corsican--show a
Corsican's courage!"
"I will!" was the determined reply, and the steward walked with a firm
tread to the side of the yacht.
"What do you mean?" said the Count, hurrying after him and placing his
hand on his shoulder.
"You shall see!" answered Bertuccio.
Shaking off Monte-Cristo's grasp, he leaped upon the bulwarks and
suddenly sprang far out amid the seething waves. The Count uttered a cry
of horror that was echoed by the captain. As for the crew, so utterly
stupefied were they that they did not seem to comprehend the suicidal
act. For an instant Monte-Cristo and Giacomo saw the steward whirling
about amid the tumultuous flood; then he was swept away, and vanished in
the impenetrable darkness beyond.
The force of the wind had meanwhile augmented until a perfect hurricane
was raging about the Alcyon; the noise was deafening, and the sails
swelled to such an extent that they threatened to snap asunder. Suddenly
they gave way, and the tattered shreds flew in all directions, like
white-winged sea-fowl. Simultaneously the mast toppled and went by the
board. The yacht, now a helpless wreck, pitched and tossed, but still
shot onward, impelled by the wild fury of the gale. Gigantic waves at
intervals swept the deck, each torrent as it retreated carrying with it
all it could tear away, and making huge gaps in the bulwarks, to which
the sailors were clinging with all the energy of desperation.
Monte-Cristo had grasped the stump of the mast, and the captain clung
with all his strength to the remains of the wheel. The lightning had
become terrific, and the almost continuous roar of the thunder was
sufficient to drown the mad din of the waters.
All at once the jagged outlines of a gigantic rock loomed up, directly
in the course of the fated vessel; in another instant the Alcyon struck
and remained fast, while a vivid flash of lightning revealed what
appeared to be an island, about a quarter of a mile away. But though the
wreck of the yacht was motionless, the furious sea continued to break
over the deck, and it seemed only a question of a few moments when the
battered and torn hull of the Alcyon would go to pieces. The boat the
vessel carried had long since been wrenched from its fastenings and
swept into the whirlpool.
Monte-Cristo, quitting the stump of the mast, darted down the
companion-way into the cabin, and quickly returned to the deck bearing
in his arms the swooning form of his adored Haydee. Ali followed him.
The Nubian seemed to have entirely recovered from his fear, and
manifested both alertness and decision.
Shifting his lifeless burden to his left arm and grasping her firmly,
Monte-Cristo advanced to the side of the Alcyon. Pausing there for an
instant, he said, addressing Giacomo and the crew:
"The yacht cannot hold together much longer; if we remain where we are
we shall inevitably be ground to powder on the rock with our vessel.
There is an island some distance to the right of us, and, sustained by
Providence, we may succeed in reaching it by swimming. For my part, I
shall try the venture and endeavor to save this lady. You, men, are
untrammeled and stand a better chance of success than I do. I advise you
all to follow my example; to cling further to the wreck is death!"
With these words the Count made his way to a gap in the bulwarks and,
grasping Haydee tightly, leaped with her into the midst of the angry
sea. Ali followed his master, and soon they were seen far in the
distance, struggling and battling with the waves.
CHAPTER II.
THE ISLAND.
It was the month of December, but on the little Island of Salmis in the
Grecian Archipelago the temperature was as mild and genial as that of
June. The grass was rank and thick, while the blooming almond trees
filled the atmosphere with fragrance. On a narrow strip of sandy beach
three or four fishermen were preparing their nets and boats for a
fishing expedition to the waters beyond. They chatted as they toiled.
The eldest of them, a man about sixty, with silvered locks and a long
gray beard, said:
"You may talk of storms as much as you please, but I maintain that the
most severe tempest ever experienced in this neighborhood was the one I
witnessed ten years ago last October, when we had the earthquake and the
strange man, who now owns this island, was washed ashore."
"The Count of Monte-Cristo you mean?" remarked one of the party.
"Yes, the Count of Monte-Cristo, who has done so much for us all and
whose wife is nothing less than an angel of goodness and charity."
"You rescued him, did you not, Alexis?"
"I found him lying upon the beach, with the lady who is now his wife
tightly clasped in his arms, so tightly that I had no end of trouble to
separate them. Both were unconscious at the time, and no wonder, for the
sea was furious and they must have been dashed about at a fearful rate.
It was a miracle they escaped with their lives. Near them lay that
dark-skinned African, their servant, who styles himself Ali, as well as
the corpses of several sailors. The African, however, revived just as I
approached him. He's a man of iron, I tell you, for he immediately
leaped to his feet and helped me to restore his master and mistress.
When they came to, I took the whole party to my hut and cared for them.
The next day I rowed the Count and the African out to the wreck of their
vessel on that rock you see away over there, and they brought back with
them a fabulous amount of money and jewels that they found in the
strangest closets I ever saw in the cabin. Then the Count bought this
island and has lived here ever since. He took the lady to Athens and was
married to her there, and on his return he had the palace they now
occupy built in the midst of the palm grove."
By this time the fishermen had completed their preparations and,
leaping into their boats, they started on their expedition.
The palace in the palm grove to which old Alexis had alluded was,
indeed, a magnificent dwelling, suitable in every respect for the
residence of an oriental monarch. It was built in the Turkish fashion
and its exterior was singularly beautiful and imposing. Huge palm trees
surrounded it; they were planted in regular rows upon a vast lawn that
was adorned with costly statues and fountains, while at intervals were
scattered great flower beds filled with choice exotics and blooming
plants of endless variety. A wide graveled walk and carriage-road led to
the palace, the main entrance to which was flanked on either side by
columns of dark-veined marble. The edifice itself was of green stone,
and sparkled in the sunlight like a colossal emerald. It was surmounted
by three zinc-covered domes, above each of which towered a gilded
crescent.
Within all was elegance and luxury. There were immense salons, with
marble floors, and walls covered with Smyrna hangings of the most
beautiful description that of themselves must have cost a fortune. These
salons were furnished with rich divans, tables of malachite, cabinets of
ebony, and oriental rugs of the most artistic and complicated
workmanship. There were dazzling reception rooms filled with exquisite
statues and superb paintings, the works of the greatest sculptors and
artists of the east and west, of the past and the present. Figures by
Thorwaldsen, Powers and other modern celebrities of the block and chisel
stood beside antique masterpieces framed by the genius of Phidias and
his brother sculptors of old Greece and Rome, masterpieces that had been
torn from the ruins of antiquity by the hand of the untiring and
enterprising excavator. Among the paintings were fine specimens of the
skill of Albert Duerer, Murillo, Rubens, Van Dyck, Rembrandt, Sir Joshua
Reynolds and other votaries of the brush whose names are immortal. These
paintings did not hang on the walls, for they were covered with rich
tapestry from the looms of Benares and the Gobelins, but rested on
delicately fashioned easels, themselves entitled to a high, rank as
works of art. In the salons were statues by Michael Angelo, Pierre Puget
and Pompeo Marchesi, and paintings by Claude Lorraine, Titian, Sir
Thomas Lawrence, Correggio and Salvator Rosa.
The vast library was encircled by lofty bookcases of walnut and ebony,
filled with rare and costly volumes from the curiously illuminated
missals of monkish days to the latest scientific works, together with a
liberal sprinkling of poetry and fiction; upon tables, stands and
mantels were superb ornaments in brass repousse work and grand old
faience, including some wonderful specimens of ancient Chinese crackle
ware, the peculiar secret of the manufacture of which had been lost in
the flight of ages.
At an exquisite desk of walnut, carved with grotesque images, sat the
Count of Monte-Cristo; he was busily engaged in writing, and beside him
lay a huge pile of manuscript that was ever and anon augmented by an
additional sheet, hastily scrawled in strange, bewildering Semitic
characters.
The Count showed but small trace of the passage of years; he did not
look much older than when he left the Isle of Monte-Cristo with Haydee
on that voyage which was destined to result so disastrously for the
Alcyon and her ill-fated crew. To be sure, his hair was slightly flecked
with gray, but his visage still retained its full outline, and not a
wrinkle marred its masculine beauty. He was clad in an exceedingly
picturesque costume, half Greek and half Turkish, while upon his head
was a red fez from the centre of which hung down a gilt tassel.
As he wrote his eyes sparkled and he seemed filled with enthusiasm. At
length he threw aside his pen, and rising began to pace the vast