this vast pedestal,—on land not a human being, on sea not a sail; whilst the blue ocean beat against the base of the island and covered it with a fringe of foam. Then he descended with cautious and slow step, for he dreaded lest an accident similar to that he had so adroitly feigned should happen in reality.
Dantès, as we have said, had traced back the marks in the rock; and he had noticed that they led to a small creek, hidden like the bath of some ancient nymph. This creek was sufficiently wide at its mouth, and deep in the center, to admit of the entrance of a small vessel of the speronare class, which would be perfectly concealed from observation.
Then, following the clew that, in the hands of the Abbé Faria, had been so skillfully used to guide him through the Dædalian labyrinth of probabilities, he thought that the Cardinal Spada, anxious not to be watched, had entered the creek, concealed his little bark, followed the line marked by the notches in the rock, and at the end of it had buried his treasure. It was this idea that had brought Dantès back to the circular rock. One thing only perplexed Edmond, and destroyed his theory. How could this rock, which weighed several tons, have been lifted to this spot without the aid of many men?
Suddenly an idea flashed across his mind. Instead of raising it, thought he, they have lowered it. And he sprang upon the rock in order to look for the base on which it had formerly stood.
He soon perceived that a slope had been formed, and the rock had slid along this until it stopped at the spot it now occupied. A stone of ordinary size had served as a wedge; flints and pebbles had been scattered around it, so as to conceal the break: this species of masonry had been covered with earth, and grass and weeds had grown there, moss had clung to the stones, myrtle-bushes had taken root, and the old rock seemed fixed to the earth.
Dantès raised the earth carefully, and detected, or fancied he detected, the ingenious artifice. He attacked this wall, cemented by the hand of Time, with his pickaxe. After ten minutes' labor the wall gave way, and a hole large enough to insert the arm was opened.
Dantès went and cut the strongest olive-tree he could find, stripped off its branches, inserted it in the hole, and used it as a lever. But the rock was too heavy and too firmly wedged to be moved by any one man, were he Hercules himself. Dantès reflected that he must attack this wedge. But how?
He cast his eyes around, and saw the horn full of powder which his friend Jacopo had left him. He smiled; the infernal invention would serve him for this purpose.
With the aid of his pickaxe Dantès dug, between the upper rock
