"You have not seen all yet," continued Faria, "for I did not think it wise to trust all my treasures in the same hiding-place. Let us shut this one up."
Dantès helped him to replace the stone; the abbé sprinkled a little dust over it, rubbed his foot well on it to make it assume the same appearance as the other, and then, going toward his bed, he removed it from the spot it stood in.
Behind the head of the bed, and concealed by a stone fitting in so closely as to defy all suspicion, was a hollow space, and in this space a ladder of cords, between twenty-five and thirty feet in length.
Dantès closely and eagerly examined it; he found it firm, solid, and compact enough to bear any weight.
"Who supplied you with the materials for making this wonderful work?" asked Dantès.
"No one but myself. I tore up several of my shirts, and unraveled the sheets of my bed, during my three years' imprisonment at Fenestrelle; and when I was removed to the Château d'If, I managed to bring the ravelings with me, so that I have been able to finish my work here."
"And was it not discovered that your sheets were unhemmed?"
"Oh, no! for when I had taken out the thread I required, I hemmed the edges over again."
"With what?"
"With this needle!" said the abbé, as, opening his ragged vestments, he showed Dantès a long, sharp fish-bone, with a small, perforated eye for the thread, a small portion of which still remained in it.
"I once thought," continued Faria, "of removing these iron bars, and letting myself down from the window, which, as you see, is somewhat wider than yours, although I should have enlarged it still more preparatory to my flight; however, I discovered that I should merely have dropped into a sort of inner court, and I therefore renounced the project altogether as too full of risk and danger. Nevertheless, I care fully preserved my ladder against one of those unforeseen opportunities of which I spoke just now, and which chance frequently brings about."
While affecting to be deeply engaged in examining the ladder, the mind of Dantès was, in fact, busily occupied by the idea that a person so intelligent, ingenious, and clear-sighted as the abbé might probably be enabled to clear up the dark recesses of his own misfortunes, in which he had in vain sought to distinguish aught.
"What are you thinking of?" asked the abbé smilingly, imputing the deep abstraction in which his visitor was plunged to the excess of his awe and wonder.
"I was reflecting, in the first place," replied Dantès, "upon the enor-
