CHAPTER CXVIII
THE FIFTH OF OCTOBER
T was about six o'clock in the evening; an opal-colored light, through which an autumnal sun shed its golden rays, streamed from heaven down on the blue sea. The heat of the day had gradually decreased, and a light breeze like the respiration of nature on awakening from the burning siesta of the south began to be felt; a delicious zephyr refreshing the coasts of the Mediterranean, and wafting from shore to shore the sweet perfume of the trees, mingled with the fresh smell of the sea.
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 motion resembled that of the swan that opens its wings to the wind and seems to glide over the water. It advanced, at the same time, swiftly and gracefully, leaving behind it a phosphorescent track. By degrees the sun, whose last rays had faded, disappeared behind the western horizon; but, as though to prove the truth of the glittering dreams in heathen mythology, its indiscreet fires reappearing on the summit of each wave, seemed to reveal that the god of fire had just enfolded himself in the bosom of Amphitrite, 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 curling ringlets of a girl. Standing on the prow was a tall man, of a dark complexion, who saw with dilating eyes that they were approaching a dark mass of land in the shape of a cone, rising from the midst of the waves, like the hat of a Catalan.
"Is that Monte-Cristo?" asked the traveler, to whose orders the yacht was for the time submitted, in a melancholy voice.
"Yes, your excellency," said the captain, "we have reached it!"
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