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The man placed his finger on her lips. "The Count of MonteCristo!" she murmured.It was easy to see that no doubt now remained in the young girl's mindas to the reality of the scene; her eyes started with terror, her handstrembled, and she rapidly drew the bedclothes closer to her. Still, thepresence of Monte Cristo at such an hour, his mysterious, fanciful, andextraordinary entrance into her room through the wall, might well seemimpossibilities to her shattered reason.
''There is no pursuit more worthy of me: more worthy of the highestnature that exists: than the struggle to win such a heart as yours,'said the young man, taking her hand. 'Rose, my own dear Rose! Foryears--for years--I have loved you; hoping to win my way to fame, andthen come proudly home and tell you it had been pursued only for you toshare; thinking, in my daydreams, how I would remind you, in that happymoment, of the many silent tokens I had given of a boy's attachment,and claim your hand, as in redemption of some old mute contract thathad been sealed between us! That time has not arrived; but here, withnot fame won, and no young vision realised, I offer you the heart solong your own, and stake my all upon the words with which you greet theoffer.golletoo
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