"We have not found him, and yet we have searched every corner."
"He may be dead."
"That may be, but surely this is a proof that no such treasures ever existed here, for if they had, he would not remain here to die of hunger!"
"At all events we will make a sacrifice to the unknown God, as the ancients did."
And they put together all the provisions they had—bread, fruit and wine—and with the point of a dagger they traced on the rock the words:
"For the Abbé of Monte-Cristo!"
Then they departed.
"Poor fools!" said the Count, as he watched the fast lessening sails. "No, there is no treasure on this island save one, and that would be valueless to you!"
Monte-Cristo had lived all these years on roots and bark, for he had sworn never to touch money again while he lived.
On the night when we again find Monte-Cristo, he came down from the high rock by a narrow path which led to a platform. Here he stooped and turned over a flat stone, which left a dark cavity exposed. Into this place Monte-Cristo descended by steps cut in the rock. He reached a square room cut out of the granite. In the centre stood a marble sarcophagus, and there lay Esperance. The living was paler than the dead. Monte-Cristo laid his hand on that of his son.