ESPERANCE, THE SON OF MONTE-CRISTO.

Esperance, the son of Monte-Cristo, lay sleeping in the comfortable bed provided for him in the house of Fanfar, the French colonist, as related at the close of the preceding volume, “The Wife of Monte-Cristo.” The prostration and exhaustion brought on by the excitement and fatigue of his terrible adventure with the remorseless Khouans rendered his sleep as leaden as the sleep of death; indeed, had it not been for his heavy respiration, he might have been mistaken for a corpse. But ordinary difficulties were not to conquer the heroic son of Monte-Cristo, who seemed to have inherited all the marvelous power and energy of his noble father, and as he lay there in the hot Algerian night, amid the balmy perfume of the luxuriant tropical flowers, a mysterious smile hovered about the corners of his sharply cut lips that told unmistakably of a fearless nature and a firm desire to promote the success of the good and the true. Esperance slept, and the lion in him was dormant; it was, however, destined soon to be aroused.

In another room, around the family table, Fanfar and his guests were seated, the Count of Monte-Cristo occupying the place of honor. The colonist, at the urgent solicitation of those with whom he had so strangely been brought in contact, was about to relate the story of his life, when suddenly Monte-Cristo’s quick ear caught a sound.

“What was that?” he said in a startled whisper, instantly springing to his feet.

“I heard nothing,” said Fanfar.

“It was, perhaps, the cry of some wild beast,” suggested Captain Joliette.

Monte-Cristo hastened to his son’s apartment, followed by Fanfar, Captain Joliette and Coucon, the Zouave.

The boy was still sleeping soundly, and the apartment was altogether undisturbed.

Monte-Cristo uttered a sigh of relief; he bent over the beautiful child and gently kissed him on the forehead.

The party returned to the adjoining room and resumed their seats. Scarcely had they done so when a dark form, shrouded in a green bournous, appeared stealthily at the open window of Espérance’s chamber, and, gazing furtively around, lightly sprang into the room.

“Dog of a Frenchman!” hissed the intruder in a low tone between his teeth. “When you flung me over the battlements of Ouargla, you fancied you had killed me; but Maldar bears a charmed life and will have a bitter revenge!”

The intruder was indeed Maldar, the Sultan, who by some miracle had escaped Monte-Cristo’s vengeance.

As he spoke he shook his fist in the direction of the Count, who was sitting at the table with the rest of Fanfar’s guests, though his sombre air and clouded brow told that, while preserving his outward calmness, he yet suspected the presence of a deadly foe.

Maldar had removed his sandals, and his footsteps were noiseless. He went to the bed and stood for an instant gloating over the slumbering boy.

“I failed before, but I shall not fail again. Allah is great! I will strike this giaour of a Frenchman in his tenderest spot his heart! The son shall pay the father’s debt!”

Half-crouching and gathering his green bournous closely about him, he crept cautiously back to the window and made the sign of the crescent in the air. There was a slight flash, a pale phosphorescent glow, and in the midst of it the emblem of Islam appeared for an instant like a semi-circle of fire and then vanished.

Immediately a Khouan showed himself at the window; he leaped into the apartment, followed by three others of his fanatical and pitiless tribe. The new-comers instantly knelt at Maldar’s feet and kissed the hem of his bournous.

“Son of the Prophet,” said one of them, “we are here to do your bidding!”

“Rise,” said Maldar, “and seize yonder lad, first gagging him with this sacred scarf made from Mohammed’s own sainted vestment. Be quick and bear him to the desert!”

The Khouan who had acted as spokesman took the scarf from Maldar’s hand and skilfully executed his command. Esperance was in such a deep slumber that he did not make a movement, even when the Arab lifted him from the bed and held him in his arms.

“Away!” cried Maldar in an undertone, adding, as the Khouan sprang from the window and disappeared in the darkness without: “Now, Count of Monte-Cristo, you are once more at my mercy, and this time you will not escape my vengeance!”

He darted through the window, motioning to the remaining Khouans to do likewise. In an instant the room was empty; the Arabs had vanished like a vision of the night.

Ten, fifteen minutes passed, and still not a sound to break the torpor of the Algerian night, save the hum of conversation around the table of Fanfar, the colonist. Monte-Cristo’s sombre air had not passed away. He was a prey to a species of uneasiness he had never experienced before. Fanfar, noticing that the Count was disturbed, that some mysterious influence was working upon him, hesitated to commence his narration. Finally he said to him:

“Count, are you anxious concerning your son? If so, you can dismiss your anxiety. The lad is in perfect safety beneath my roof; his slumber will refresh him, and he will awake entirely restored. As for the Khouans, they never deign to visit my humble habitation, and they will hardly break their rule to come here now. Still, to satisfy you and put all your apprehensions at rest, I will go and take a look at the lad.”

He arose and went to Espérance’s room. In an instant he returned. His face had the pallor of wax.

Monte-Cristo leaped nervously to his feet and stood staring at him, his countenance wearing an expression of intense anguish.

“Well?” said he, in an unsteady voice.

Fanfar was breathless with excitement and terror. When he could find words, he said:

“The lad is gone!”

“My God!” cried Monte-Cristo, putting his hand to his forehead and staggering beneath the overwhelming blow, “I felt it! I had a premonition of some impending disaster, I knew not what! Oh! Esperance! Esperance!”

He hurried into the adjoining room and stood beside the empty bed. The moon was now shining in unclouded splendor and the apartment was almost as light as day. The slight covering had been torn from the couch and lay in a heap on the floor. Near it a small object sparkled; the agonized father stooped and picked it up: it was a miniature dagger of oriental workmanship, and upon its jeweled handle was an inscription in the Arabic tongue. Monte-Cristo took the weapon to the window and the full light of the silvery moonbeams fell upon it. The inscription was from the Koran, and was a maxim adopted by the Khouan tribe. The Count read it and trembled.

“I recognize this weapon,” said he; “it is Maldar’s. The Sultan is living and has been here! It is to him I owe this terrible misfortune he has carried away my son!”

Miss Elphys approached the Count and touched his arm.

“We must start in pursuit at once!” said she, with a look of courage and determination.

“We?” cried Madame Caraman, aghast. “You, surely, do not mean again to face the dangers of this barbarous country, to go upon another Quixotic expedition, and drag me with you? Remember you are a woman! Besides, there are plenty of men here for the task!”

Clary glanced at the governess with indignation, but vouchsafed no reply to her selfish speech.

“Mademoiselle,” said Captain Joliette, addressing the heroic girl, “your feelings do you honor; but I for one cannot consent for you to imperil your life in a night hunt for the dastardly Khouans, who have certainly made their way to the desert with the abducted lad. Madame Caraman is right; you must not again face the dangers of this barbarous country. Remain here with Madame Irene and Madame Caraman. I will organize and lead the pursuit.”

Monte-Cristo, who, in the face of the new dangers that threatened his son, had recovered somewhat of his accustomed calmness, came to them and said:

“I thank you, Miss Elphys, for your generosity and bravery, but you must take the Captain’s advice. Captain Joliette, I fully appreciate your motives in wishing to take command in this pursuit, but, at the same time, I must claim the precedence. Remember I am a father, and have a father’s duty to perform. I will lead the pursuit.”

Captain Joliette bowed.

“So be it,” said he, “it is your right.”

Coucon, Fanfar, Gratillet and Iron Jaws eagerly offered their services, and even Bobichel forgot his merry pranks and demanded to accompany the expedition. The Count of Monte-Cristo desired the former clown to remain for the protection of the ladies, but Miss Elphys protested against this.

“Take Bobichel with you,” she said. “We can protect ourselves.”

Bobichel, overjoyed, ran for the horses, and the little army instantly mounted, riding away toward the desert at the top of their animals’ speed, with Monte-Cristo at their head.

Meanwhile Maldar and his Khouan followers were dashing along at a rapid pace on the fleet Arab coursers with which they were provided. One of the party bore Esperance before him on his saddle. The boy had not been aroused from his lethargic sleep by the abduction and subsequent flight. He slept peacefully and profoundly.

The fanatical Arabs maintained unbroken silence, and the sound of their horses’ hoofs was deadened by the sand.

Maldar rode a trifle in advance. Now that the excitement of the abduction had worn off, he was as stoical as the rest, but occasionally, as he thought of his triumph over Monte-Cristo and the vengeance he was about to take upon his hated enemy, for he had decided to put Esperance to a lingering and terrible death and send the lad’s gory head to the agonized father, a grim smile stole over his otherwise impassible countenance, and a demoniac gleam shot from his eyes.

But suddenly a faint sound was heard in the far distance. It came from the direction of Fanfar’s farm. Maldar listened attentively; then he said to the Khouans, whose quick ears had also detected the sound:

“Ride like the wind, sons of the Prophet! We are pursued! The Count of Monte-Cristo and his unbelieving French hounds are on our track! But if they would overtake us and recover the boy, they must have the cunning of serpents and horses as fleet as the lightning’s flash!”