saw that she would pass, like most vessels bound for Italy, between the islands of Jaros and Calaseraigne. However, the vessel and the swimmer insensibly neared one another, and in one of its tacks the tartan bore down within a quarter of a mile of him. He rose on the waves, making signs of distress; but no one on board saw him, and the vessel stood on another tack. Dantès would have shouted, but he knew that the wind would drown his voice…
               Dantès, though almost sure as to what course the vessel would take, had yet watched it anxiously until it tacked and stood towards him. Then he advanced; but before they could meet, the vessel again changed her course. By a violent effort he rose half out of the water, waving his cap, and uttering a loud shout peculiar to sailors. This time he was both seen and heard, and the tartan instantly steered towards him. At the same time, he saw they were about to lower the boat.
               An instant after, the boat, rowed by two men, advanced rapidly towards him…He shouted again. The two sailors redoubled their efforts, and one of them cried in Italian, “Courage!”
               The word reached his ear as a wave which he no longer had the strength to surmount passed over his head. He rose again to the surface, struggled with the last desperate effort of a drowning man, uttered a third cry, and felt himself sinking, as if the fatal cannon shot were again tied to his feet. The water passed over his head, and the sky turned gray. A convulsive movement again brought him to the surface. He felt himself seized by the hair, then he saw and heard nothing. He had fainted.
               When he opened his eyes, Dantès found himself on the deck of the tartan. His first care was to see what course they were taking. They were rapidly leaving the Château d’If behind. Dantès was so exhausted that the exclamation of joy he uttered was mistaken for a sigh.
               As we have said, he was lying on the deck. A sailor was rubbing his limbs with a woolen cloth; another, whom he recognized as the one who had cried out “Courage!” held a gourd full of rum to his mouth; while the third, an old sailor, at once the pilot and captain, looked on with that egotistical pity men feel for a misfortune that they have escaped yesterday, and which may overtake them tomorrow…
               “Who are you?” said the pilot in bad French.
               “I am,” replied Dantès, in bad Italian, “a Maltese sailor. We were coming from Syracuse laden with grain. The storm of last night overtook us at Cape Morgion, and we were wrecked on these rocks.”
               “Where do you come from?”
               “From these rocks that I had the good luck to cling to while our captain and the rest of the crew were all lost…You have saved my life, and I thank you,” continued Dantès. “I was lost when one of your sailors caught hold of my hair.”
               “It was I,” said a sailor of a frank and manly appearance; “and it was time, for you were sinking.”
               “Yes,” returned Dantès, holding out his hand, “I thank you again.”
               “I almost hesitated, though,” replied the sailor; “you looked more like a brigand than an honest man, with your beard six inches, and your hair a foot long.” Dantès recollected that his hair and beard had not been cut all the time he was at the Château d’If.
               “Where are you going?” asked Dantès.
               ”To Leghorn.” …
               “What is the day of the month?” asked [Dantès] of Jacopo, who sat down beside him.
               “The 28th of February.”
               “In what year?”
               “In what year—you ask me in what year?”
               “Yes,” replied the young man, “I ask you in what year!” …
               “The year 1829,” returned Jacopo. It was fourteen years day for day since Dantès’ arrest. He was nineteen when he entered the Château d’If; he was thirty-three when he escaped. A sorrowful smile passed over his face; he asked himself what had become of Mercédès, who must believe him dead. Then his eyes lighted up with hatred as he thought of the three men who had caused him so long and wretched a captivity. He renewed against Danglars, Fernand, and Villefort the oath of implacable vengeance he had made in his dungeon. This oath was no longer a vain menace; for the fastest sailor in the Mediterranean would have been unable to overtake the little tartan, that with every stitch of canvas set was flying before the wind to Leghorn.