in this, and the earth proved too heavy, he would be stifled, and then, so much the better, — all would be over.
Dantès had not eaten since the previous evening, but he had not thought of hunger or thirst, nor did he now think of it. His position was too precarious to allow him even time to reflect on any thought but one.
The first risk that Dantès ran was, that the jailer, when he brought him his supper at seven o'clock, might perceive the substitution he had effected: fortunately, twenty times at least, from misanthropy or fatigue, Dantès had received his jailer in bed, and then the man placed his bread and soup on the table, and went away without saying a word. This time the jailer might not be silent as usual, but speak to Dantès, and seeing that he received no reply, go to the bed, and thus discover all.
When seven o'clock came, Dantès' agony really commenced. His hand placed upon his heart was unable to repress its throbbings, whilst, with the other, he wiped the perspiration from his temples. From time to time shudderings ran through his whole frame, and compressed his heart as if it were in an icy vise. Then he thought he was going to die. Yet the hours passed on without any stir in the château, and Dantès felt he had escaped the first danger: it was a good augury.
At length, about the hour the governor had appointed, footsteps were heard on the stairs. Edmond felt that the moment had arrived, and summoning up all his courage, held his breath, happy if at the same time he could have repressed in like manner the hasty pulsation of his arteries. They stopped at the door — there were two steps, and Dantès guessed it was the two grave-diggers who came to seek him. This idea was soon converted into certainty, when he heard the noise they made in putting down the hand-bier.
The door opened, and a dim light reached Dantès' eyes through the coarse sack that covered him; he saw two shadows approach his bed, a third remaining at the door with a torch in his hand. Each of these two men, approaching the ends of the bed; took the sack by its extremities.
"He's heavy, though, for an old and thin man," said one, as he raised the head.
"They say every year adds half a pound to the weight of the bones," said another, lifting the feet.
"Have you tied the knot?" inquired the first speaker.
"What would be the use of carrying so much more weight?" was the reply; "I can do that when we get there."
"Yes, you're right," replied the companion.
"What's the knot for?" thought Dantès.
