“Who talks of God and despair at the same time?” said a voice that seemed to come from beneath the earth, and, deadened by the distance, sounded hollow and sepulchral in the young man’s ears. Edmond’s hair stood on end, and he rose to his knees.
“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?”