Edmond and Mercedes were clasped in each other's arms.

The burning Marseilles sun, which shot into the room through the open door, covered them with a flood of light.
At first they saw nothing around them.

Their intense happiness isolated them from all the rest of the world, and they only spoke in broken words, which are the tokens of a joy so extreme that they seem rather the expression of sorrow.

Suddenly Edmond saw the gloomy, pale, and threatening countenance of Fernand, as it was defined in the shadow.
By a movement for which he could scarcely account to himself, the young Catalan placed his hand on the knife at his belt.
"Ah, your pardon," said Dantes, frowning in his turn; "I did not perceive that there were three of us." Then, turning to Mercedes, he inquired, "Who is this gentleman ?" "One who will be your best friend, Dantes, for he is my friend, my cousin, my brother; it is Fernand--the man whom, after you, Edmond, I love the best in the world.

Do you not remember him ?" "Yes!" said Dantes, and without relinquishing Mercedes hand clasped in one of his own, he extended the other to the Catalan with a cordial air.
But Fernand, instead of responding to this amiable gesture, remained mute and trembling.