The Count of Monte Cristo

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"Thanks," said the poor abbe, shivering as though his veins were filled
with ice. "I am about to be seized with a fit of catalepsy; when it
comes to its height I shall probably lie still and motionless as though
dead, uttering neither sigh nor groan. On the other hand, the symptoms
may be much more violent, and cause me to fall into fearful convulsions,
foam at the mouth, and cry out loudly. Take care my cries are not heard,
for if they are it is more than probable I should be removed to another
part of the prison, and we be separated forever. When I become quite
motionless, cold, and rigid as a corpse, then, and not before,--be
careful about this,--force open my teeth with the knife, pour from eight
to ten drops of the liquor contained in the phial down my throat, and I
may perhaps revive."

"Perhaps!" exclaimed Dantes in grief-stricken tones.

"Help! help!" cried the abbe, "I--I--die--I"--