The Count of Monte Cristo

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Maximilian; thank heaven that you came at noon rather than in the
evening, or to-morrow morning. Listen, Morrel--it is noon; if Valentine
is not now dead, she will not die."

"How so?" cried Morrel, "when I left her dying?" Monte Cristo pressed
his hands to his forehead. What was passing in that brain, so loaded
with dreadful secrets? What does the angel of light or the angel of
darkness say to that mind, at once implacable and generous? God only
knows.

Monte Cristo raised his head once more, and this time he was calm as
a child awaking from its sleep. "Maximilian," said he, "return home. I
command you not to stir--attempt nothing, not to let your countenance
betray a thought, and I will send you tidings. Go."

"Oh, count, you overwhelm me with that coolness. Have you, then, power
against death? Are you superhuman? Are you an angel?" And the young