* * * * *
It was ten years since Monte-Cristo, on that fearful night, bore off the corpse of his only son.
Again he stood alone on the rock on the island of Monte-Cristo. He had lived on this rock for ten years. He saw no one, heard no one, except when occasionally men came ashore for water. Then he concealed himself, watching them and hearing their gay laughter.
But the rumor that the island was haunted spread around, and the superstitious Italians claimed that it was inhabited by a spirit whom they called the Abbé of Monte-Cristo.
All these years Monte-Cristo had lived on herbs and roots. He had sworn never to touch money again while he lived.
One night Monte-Cristo entered the subterranean cave where the marble sarcophagus of his son was:
"Spero," he earnestly said, "is it time?"
A long silence ensued. Then—was it a reality?—Spero's lips appeared to move and utter the word:
"Come."