The Count of Monte Cristo

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which an autumnal sun shed its golden rays, descended on the blue ocean.
The heat of the day had gradually decreased, and a light breeze arose,
seeming like the respiration of nature on awakening from the burning
siesta of the south. A delicious zephyr played along the coasts of
the Mediterranean, and wafted from shore to shore the sweet perfume of
plants, mingled with the fresh smell of the sea.

A light yacht, chaste and elegant in its form, was gliding amidst the
first dews of night over the immense lake, extending from Gibraltar to
the Dardanelles, and from Tunis to Venice. The vessel resembled a
swan with its wings opened towards the wind, gliding on the water. It
advanced swiftly and gracefully, leaving behind it a glittering stretch
of foam. By degrees the sun disappeared behind the western horizon; but
as though to prove the truth of the fanciful ideas in heathen mythology,
its indiscreet rays reappeared on the summit of every wave, as if the
god of fire had just sunk upon the bosom of Amphitrite, who in vain
endeavored to hide her lover beneath her azure mantle. The yacht moved