The Count of Monte Cristo

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"You love?--whom?" cried Monte Cristo, starting to his feet, and seizing
the two hands which Morrel was raising towards heaven.

"I love most fondly--I love madly--I love as a man who would give his
life-blood to spare her a tear--I love Valentine de Villefort, who is
being murdered at this moment! Do you understand me? I love her; and I
ask God and you how I can save her?" Monte Cristo uttered a cry which
those only can conceive who have heard the roar of a wounded lion.
"Unhappy man," cried he, wringing his hands in his turn; "you love
Valentine,--that daughter of an accursed race!" Never had Morrel
witnessed such an expression--never had so terrible an eye flashed
before his face--never had the genius of terror he had so often seen,
either on the battle-field or in the murderous nights of Algeria, shaken
around him more dreadful fire. He drew back terrified.

As for Monte Cristo, after this ebullition he closed his eyes as
if dazzled by internal light. In a moment he restrained himself so