CHAPTER XVI
A LEARNED ITALIAN
USHING toward the friend so long and ardently desired, Dantès almost carried him toward the window, in order to obtain a better view of his features by the aid of the imperfect light that struggled through the grating of the prison.
He was a man of small stature, with hair blanched rather by suffering and sorrow than years. A deep-set, penetrating eye, almost buried beneath the thick gray eyebrow, and a long (and still black) beard reaching down to his breast. The meagerness of his features, furrowed with deep wrinkles, joined to the bold outline of his strongly marked features announced a man more accustomed to exercise his moral faculties than his physical strength. Large drops of perspiration were now standing on his brow, while his garments hung about him in such rags as to render it useless to form a guess as to their primitive description.
The stranger might have numbered sixty or sixty-five years; but a certain vigor in his movements made it probable that he was aged more from captivity than the course of time. He received the enthusiastic greeting of his young acquaintance with evident pleasure, as though his chilled affections seemed rekindled and invigorated by his contact with one so ardent. He thanked him with grateful cordiality for his kindly welcome, although he must at that moment have been suffering bitterly to find another dungeon where he had fondly reckoned on finding liberty.
"Let us first see," said he, "whether it is possible to remove the traces of my entrance here — our future comforts depend upon our jailers being entirely ignorant of it."
Advancing to the opening, he stooped and raised the stone easily in spite of its weight; then, fitting it into its place, he said:
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