"Very well, Bertuccio, and now follow us."
The Corsican looked wonderingly at the count, and, taking his pick in his hand, walked behind. When they had reached the rear part of the little island, Ali paused and pointed to a rock which projected into the sea.
Monte-Cristo's eyes followed the Nubian's direction, and he recognized a human body lying at full length upon a rock. The face was turned aside, and a dark pool of blood indicated a wound. The man's right hand convulsively clutched a package. With a bound Monte-Cristo had reached the side of the motionless man, and taking him in his strong arms, he carried him to a small grass plot and carefully laid him down.
"Ali," he ordered, "run to the grotto and get some rum. Do not lose a minute, it is a question of life and death."
The Nubian departed, and Monte-Cristo laid his hand upon the wounded man's breast.
"He still lives," he exclaimed, breathing more freely, "and with God's help we will save him."
Suddenly a terrible cry was heard behind him, and Bertuccio stammeringly exclaimed:
"Oh, sir, it is the wretch, the murderer! Do you not recognize him?"
The count bent over the wounded man, and washing the blood from his face he exclaimed in horror:
"Really, it is Benedetto!"