On the 24th of February,
           1810,
         the look-out
            at Notre-Dame de la
                 Garde signalled
                   the three-master,
           the Pharaon from Smyrna,
         Trieste,
           and Naples.

    As usual,
           a pilot put off immediately,
         and rounding the Chateau d'If,
           got on board the vessel
               between Cape Morgion
                   and Rion island.

    Immediately,
           and according to custom,
         the ramparts of Fort Saint-Jean
            were covered with spectators;
        it is
              always an event
                   at Marseilles
                 for a ship
              to come into port,
           especially when this ship,
         like the Pharaon,
           has been built,
         rigged,
           and laden
               at the old Phocee docks,
         and belongs
               to an owner
                   of the city.

    The ship drew on
        and had safely
              passed the strait,
           which some volcanic shock
            has made
                   between the Calasareigne
                       and Jaros islands;
        had doubled Pomegue,
           and approached the harbor
               under topsails,
         jib,
           and spanker,
         but so slowly and sedately
             that the idlers,
           with that instinct
              which is the forerunner
                   of evil,
         asked one another
             what misfortune
                could have happened on board.

    However,
           those experienced
               in navigation saw plainly that
             if any accident had occurred,
         it was not
               to the vessel herself,
           for she bore
               down with
                   all the evidence of
            being skilfully handled,
         the anchor a-cockbill,
           the jib-boom guys already
              eased off,
         and standing
               by the side
                   of the pilot,
           who was
              steering the Pharaon
                   towards the narrow entrance
                       of the inner port,
         was a young man,
           who,
         with activity and vigilant eye,
           watched every motion
               of the ship,
         and repeated
               each direction of the pilot.

    The vague disquietude
          which prevailed among the spectators
            had so much
                  affected one of the crowd
         that he
            did not
                  await the arrival
                       of the vessel
                     in harbor,
           but jumping
               into a small skiff,
         desired to be
              pulled alongside the Pharaon,
           which he reached as
             she rounded
                   into La Reserve basin.

    When the young man
           on board
         saw this person approach,
           he left his station
               by the pilot,
         and,
           hat in hand,
         leaned over the ship's bulwarks.

    He was a fine,
           tall,
         slim young fellow of eighteen
              or twenty,
           with black eyes,
         and hair
               as dark
             as a raven's wing;
        and his whole appearance bespoke
             that calmness and resolution peculiar
                   to men accustomed
                 from their cradle
                  to contend with danger.

    "Ah,
           is it you,
         Dantes?"

    cried the man
           in the skiff.

    "What's the matter?

    and why
         have you
               such an air
                   of sadness aboard?"

    "A great misfortune,
           M. Morrel,"
          replied the young man,
              -- "a great misfortune,
               for me especially!

    Off Civita Vecchia
         we lost
               our brave Captain Leclere."

    "And the cargo?"

    inquired the owner,
           eagerly.

    "Is all safe,
           M. Morrel;
        and I think you
            will be
                  satisfied on that head.

    But poor Captain Leclere
          --
         "

    "What happened to him?"

    asked the owner,
           with an air
               of considerable resignation.

    "What happened
           to the worthy captain?"

    "He died."

    "Fell into the sea?"

    "No,
           sir,
         he died of brain-fever
               in dreadful agony."

    Then turning to the crew,
           he said,
         "Bear a hand there,
               to take in sail!"

    All hands obeyed,
           and at once the eight
              or ten seamen
             who composed the crew,
         sprang to their respective stations
               at the spanker brails