On the threshold stood an Austrian officer. He lifted his gun, and triumphantly exclaimed:
"Ha, Monte-Cristo—to-day I shall strike you through the heart! Curses on you and your race!"
The gun directed against Spero's breast went off. When the smoke had cleared away, the boy stood there unharmed, while a man tumbled down at his feet. It was Bartolomeo! Taking advantage of the confusion, he ran away and came just in the nick of time to receive Benedetto's murderous bullet in his breast.
A quarter of an hour later Aslitta appeared accompanied by Monte-Cristo and La Luciola. He was still pale and exhausted, but he swung his sword and joyfully exclaimed: "Radetzky has fled. The citadel has surrendered."
The Italians embraced each other. Their dream was realized. Milan was free.
"Papa," whispered Spero, "come with me. There is a man lying over there who sacrificed himself for me."
Monte-Cristo bent over the major, whose pale face lighted up joyfully when he saw the count.
"Let me see the wound," said Monte-Cristo. "Who knows but—"
"Unnecessary," whispered Bartolomeo; "my adopted son understands—how—to—aim!"
"Ha! then it was Benedetto!" exclaimed the count.