Haydee and Mercedes were seated in a magnificently furnished boudoir, engaged in a lively conversation. Spero's dark head lay in his mother's lap. They were both talking of their beloved ones. Mercedes said, that if Albert died her life would be at an end. Haydee only thought of Spero.

Spero, too, thought about the seriousness of his position, and was in this, as in other things, far in advance of his age. He felt deep despair at the idea of a separation from his mother, but the halo which surrounded his father gave the boy courage.

Six o'clock had now struck. Haydee's arm clung tighter to Spero, and a tear fell upon the youth's dark locks.

Monte-Cristo softly opened the door and entered. His face looked pale and careworn. Spero ran to meet his father. The count took him in his arms and softly asked:

"Are you ready, my son?"

"Yes, father," replied Spero, simply; "where you go, I follow."

Haydee hurriedly dried her tears as Monte-Cristo drew nearer. She clung to his bosom, and whispered:

"Am I to lose you both? If I only knew when you were going to return."

The count turned to Mercedes.

"Mercedes," he said to Albert's mother, "you see I do not shrink from any sacrifice when it is a question of duty. Love my Haydee and console her. She needs it."

"I swear it," replied Mercedes, solemnly; and, clasping Haydee in her arms, she added: "There is still time, Haydee; tell me, 'My husband and my child should stay here,' and I shall acquiesce in it."

"You hear her words, Haydee," said Monte-Cristo, casting an anxious look at Ali Tebelen's daughter. "What is your answer?"

Haydee's beautiful face was illuminated with a halo as she took Spero's arm and led him to his father.

"Be worthy of him," she whispered, with emotion.

Mercedes sank sobbing at the young wife's feet, and exclaimed:

"Now I shall get my son back again; I feel it."

The count finished all his preparations and chose the best weapons. He went with Spero to the dock the next morning, and was met by Jacopo, who looked like a different person.

"Have you inspected everything?" asked Monte-Cristo of the Corsican. "And are you satisfied?"

"Yes, master."

"How many men have you?"

"Ten, sir; they are all trustworthy and have travelled in Africa before. I can answer for them."

"Good. Ah! there you are, Coucou," said the count, turning to the Zouave. "I am glad that you are punctual."

The count inspected the yacht and expressed his delight to Jacopo.

The Crocodile was also lying, ready to sail, in the harbor. Wharton, confident of overtaking the Ice Bird, paced up and down the deck, rubbing his hands and from time to time casting contemptuous glances at the yacht.

From all the towers of Marseilles the seventh morning hour was rung. The count gave the signal for the departure, and the Ice Bird glided gracefully through the waters.

Monte-Cristo stood on deck looking back at France, where a part of his heart was left behind.

He had been talking with Spero for over an hour about their future plans, when a sudden commotion was heard, and the count, who was a strict disciplinarian, looked angrily about. Before he had time to inquire about the cause of the noise, a heavy mass came rolling down the cabin stairs. The count opened the door and saw the Zouave and another strange looking person, lying like a ball of cord on the floor. They both rose, but the Zouave would not let go of the other's throat at any price. The stranger was dressed in rags, and his thin, haggard face and glaring eyes made a disagreeable impression.

"What is the meaning of this, Coucou?" asked the count, angrily.

"Captain," the Zouave breathlessly replied, "I know I did wrong, but I could not help it. Just look at the face of this fellow."

Monte-Cristo looked searchingly at the man.

"Where did you pick him up?" he asked of the Zouave.

"In the engine room, close to the boiler. His brain must be half roasted already."

A cloud passed over the count's face.

"Who are you?" he said, turning to the stranger.

The man remained motionless. It was plain he did not understand the question.

The count now saw that the man was an Arabian, and repeated the question in that tongue.

"I am a poor man," the stranger submissively replied.

"How did you get to the ship?"

The Arabian was silent.

Monte-Cristo looked at the man again, and soon comprehended that the man was a hypocrite and an impostor.

Either the man was poor and had no money to go back to his home or else he was a spy.

"You were in France?" the count suddenly said to the Arabian; "how did you get there?"

"In one of the ships of your nation."

"How long ago is that?"

"Woe to him who counts the days and hours."

"Why did you not come to me? Were you afraid I would refuse to take you on board?"

"Was I to beg?" asked the Arabian, disdainfully.

"What would you do if I were to put you adrift in a bark?"

"Allah is great!"

Coucou understood enough of Arabian to comprehend the pride which lay in the stranger's words. He would have given anything to have been able to carry out the count's threats; he advanced a step, but Monte-Cristo saw his intention and motioned him back.

"Man," he said to the Arab, "you did wrong to put yourself in my power. Nevertheless, I shall be hospitable to you. Go!"

Turning to Coucou, he said:

"This man is my guest, and as such he must be sacred to you."

The Arab bowed, put his hand to his forehead, and turned toward the stairs.

"One question more," said the count; "what is your name?"

"I am called Maldar."

"You said you were poor, and yet your name signifies riches."

"He whom Allah protects is rich," replied the Arab, in veiled tones.