darkness from all eyes; but he, with his gaze accustomed to the gloom of a prison, continued to see it after all the others, for he remained last upon deck. The next morn broke off the coast of Aleria; all day they coasted, and in the evening saw some fires lighted on land; by the arrangement of these fires they no doubt recognized the signals for landing, for a ship's lantern was hung up at the mast-head instead of the streamer, and they neared the shore within gunshot. Dantès remarked that at this time, too, the patron of La Jeune Amélie had, as he neared the land, mounted two small culverines, which, without making much noise, can throw a ball, of four to the pound, a thousand paces or so.
But on this occasion the precaution was superfluous, and everything proceeded with the utmost smoothness and politeness. Four shallops came off with very little noise alongside the bark, which, no doubt, in acknowledgment of the compliment, lowered her own shallop into the sea, and the five boats worked so well that by two o'clock in the morning all the cargo was out of La Jeune Amélie and safe on shore. The same night, such a man of regularity was the master of La Jeune Amélie that the profits were shared out, and each man had a hundred Tuscan livres, or about fifteen dollars.
But the voyage was not ended. They turned the bowsprit toward Sardinia, where they intended to take in a cargo, which was to replace what had been discharged. The second operation was as successful as the first. La Jeune Amélie was in luck. This new cargo was destined for the coast of the Duchy of Lucca, and consisted almost entirely of Havana cigars, sherry, and Malaga wines.
There they had a bit of a skirmish with the custom-house; the gabelle was, in truth, the everlasting enemy of La Jeune Amélie. A custom-house officer was laid low, and two sailors were wounded; Dantès was one of the latter, a ball having touched him in the left shoulder. Dantès was almost glad of this affray, and almost pleased at being wounded, for they were rude lessons which taught him with what eye he could view danger, and with what endurance he could bear suffering.
He had contemplated danger with a smile, and when wounded had exclaimed with the great philosopher, "Pain, thou art not an evil."
He had, moreover, looked upon the custom-house officer wounded to death, and, whether from heat of blood produced by the rencontre, or the chill of human sentiment, this sight had made but slight impression upon him; Dantès was on the way he desired to follow, and was moving toward the end he wished to achieve; his heart was in a fair way of petrifying in his bosom. Jacopo, seeing him fall, had believed him
