Jon Hagadorn

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 open 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 Amphitredi, who in vain endeavored to hide her lover beneath her azure mantle.

The yacht moved rapidly on, though there did not appear to be sufficient wind to ruffle the curls on the head of a young girl.

Standing on the prow was a tall man, of dark complexion, who saw with dilating eyes that they were approaching a dark mass of land in the shape of a cone, which rose from the midst of the waves like the hat of a Catalan.

"'Is that Monte Cristo?'

asked the traveller, to whose orders the yacht was for the time submitted in a melancholy voice.

"'Yes, Your Excellency,' said the captain.

"'We have reached it.'

"'We have reached it,' repeated the traveller, in an accent of indescribable sadness.

Then he added, in a low tone, "'Yes, that is the haven.'

And then he again plunged into a train of thought, the character of which was better revealed by a sad smile than it would have been by tears."

A few minutes afterwards a flash of light, which was extinguished instantly, was seen on the land, and the sound of firearms reached the yacht.

"'Your Excellency,' said the captain, "'that was the land signal.

Will you answer yourself?'

"'What signal?'

The captain pointed towards the island, up the side of which ascended a volume of smoke, increasing as it rose.

"'Ah, yes,' he said, as if awakening from a dream.

"'Give it to me.'