The Count of Monte Cristo

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good fare. The weather was magnificent, and the excursion a treat.

The sun, red and flaming, was sinking into the embrace of the welcoming
ocean. The sea, smooth as crystal, was now and then disturbed by the
leaping of fish, which were pursued by some unseen enemy and sought for
safety in another element; while on the extreme verge of the horizon
might be seen the fishermen's boats, white and graceful as the sea-gull,
or the merchant vessels bound for Corsica or Spain.

But notwithstanding the serene sky, the gracefully formed boats, and
the golden light in which the whole scene was bathed, the Count of Monte
Cristo, wrapped in his cloak, could think only of this terrible voyage,
the details of which were one by one recalled to his memory. The
solitary light burning at the Catalans; that first sight of the Chateau
d'If, which told him whither they were leading him; the struggle with
the gendarmes when he wished to throw himself overboard; his despair
when he found himself vanquished, and the sensation when the muzzle of