The Count of Monte Cristo

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the carbine touched his forehead--all these were brought before him
in vivid and frightful reality. Like the streams which the heat of the
summer has dried up, and which after the autumnal storms gradually begin
oozing drop by drop, so did the count feel his heart gradually fill with
the bitterness which formerly nearly overwhelmed Edmond Dantes. Clear
sky, swift-flitting boats, and brilliant sunshine disappeared; the
heavens were hung with black, and the gigantic structure of the Chateau
d'If seemed like the phantom of a mortal enemy. As they reached the
shore, the count instinctively shrunk to the extreme end of the boat,
and the owner was obliged to call out, in his sweetest tone of voice,
"Sir, we are at the landing."

Monte Cristo remembered that on that very spot, on the same rock, he had
been violently dragged by the guards, who forced him to ascend the slope
at the points of their bayonets. The journey had seemed very long to
Dantes, but Monte Cristo found it equally short. Each stroke of the oar
seemed to awaken a new throng of ideas, which sprang up with the flying