n their arrival at
the latter city they proceeded immediately to the harbor, where
Monte-Cristo's yacht awaited them in obedience to instructions
telegraphed by the Count to the Captain of the craft, whose name was
Vincenzo, and who was a son of Jacopo, the former smuggler, long in
command of the ill-fated Alcyon, lost in the frightful storm and
volcanic disturbance in the Mediterranean some years before. The present
yacht was a new and superb vessel, as fleet and as beautiful as a bird.
It was fitted up in the most complete manner; the cabin, superbly
carpeted and furnished, was hung with elaborately wrought, costly
tapestry, while here and there on the walls were curiously arrayed
clusters of ancient barbaric weapons gathered from the site of old
Carthage, the ruins of historic Babylon and even from the crumbling
tombs of those redoubtable warriors who far back in the dim ages of
antiquity had defended distant Cathay against the incursions of the
fierce Tartar hordes. The yacht was named the Haydee in honor of the
loving and devoted Greek slave, the mother of Esperance and Zuleika, who
had filled such an important part in Monte-Cristo's life and had left
behind her such tender memories.

As soon as the Count and his little party were safely on board the craft
it set sail, gliding swiftly out upon the wide, sparkling expanse of
water. Monte-Cristo and Zuleika stood upon the deck, conversing
pleasantly and enjoying the ever-changing panorama presented to their
gaze. The Haydee glided swiftly past the Ile Ratonneau, conspicuous by
reason of its towering lighthouse; then came the Pointe des Catalans,
with its beach where Mercedes had once dwelt and where the unfortunate
sailor Dantes had seen the light in her chamber window on that memorable
night when he was being conducted to captivity. At length a black and
frowning rock rose before them, surmounted by a gloomy fortress. As he
caught sight of this dismal crag, Monte-Cristo knitted his brows and
through his clenched teeth muttered an imprecation upon the tyranny of
man.

"What is it that so moves you, father?" asked Zuleika, in a soft voice,
gazing solicitously into his face.

"Look yonder, my child," replied the Count, with strong emotion; "the
fortress upon that rock is the accursed Chateau d' If!"

Zuleika glanced at the fortress with a feeling of terror and dread. She
knew the story of her father's long imprisonment and keen suffering in
the dark dungeon of tha