Chapter 21 - Page 2

escape, and
your strength has not been properly exercised and prepared
for exertion." These words rang in Dantes' ears, even
beneath the waves; he hastened to cleave his way through
them to see if he had not lost his strength. He found with
pleasure that his captivity had taken away nothing of his
power, and that he was still master of that element on whose
bosom he had so often sported as a boy.

Fear, that relentless pursuer, clogged Dantes' efforts. He
listened for any sound that might be audible, and every time
that he rose to the top of a wave he scanned the horizon,
and strove to penetrate the darkness. He fancied that every
wave behind him was a pursuing boat, and he redoubled his
exertions, increasing rapidly his distance from the chateau,
but exhausting his strength. He swam on still, and already
the terrible chateau had disappeared in the darkness. He
could not see it, but he felt its presence. An hour passed,
during which Dantes, excited by the feeling of freedom,
continued to cleave the waves. "Let us see," said he, "I
have swum above an hour, but as the wind is against me, that
has retarded my speed; however, if I am not mistaken, I must
be close to Tiboulen. But what if I were mistaken?" A
shudder passed over him. He sought to tread water, in order
to rest himself; but the sea was too violent, and he felt
that he could not make use of this means of recuperation.

"Well," said he, "I will swim on until I am worn out, or the
cramp seizes me, and then I shall sink;" and he struck out
with the energy of despair.

Suddenly the sky seemed to him to become still darker and
more dense, and heavy clouds seemed to sweep down towards
him; at the same time he felt a sharp pain in his knee. He
fancied for a moment that he had been shot, and listened for
the report; but he heard nothing. Then he put out his hand,
and encountered an obstacle and with another stroke knew
that he had gained the shore.

Before him rose a grotesque mass of rocks, that resembled
nothing so much as a vast fire petrified at the moment of
its most fervent combustion. It was the Island of Tiboulen.
Dantes rose, advanced a few steps, and, with a fervent
prayer of gratitude, stretched himself on the granite. which
seemed to him softer than down. Then, in spite of the wind
and rain, he fell into the deep, sweet sleep of utter
exhaustion. At the expiration of an hour Edmond was awakened
by the roar of thunder. The tempest was let loose and
beating the atmosphere with its mighty wings; from time to
time a flash of lightning stretched across the heavens like
a fiery serpent, lighting up the clouds that rolled on in
vast chaotic waves.

Dantes had not been deceived -- he had