“Ah, yes,” said Faria; “the penknife. That’s my masterpiece. I made it, as well as this larger knife, out of an old iron candlestick.” The penknife was sharp and keen as a razor; as for the other knife, it would serve a double purpose, and with it one could cut and thrust.
Dantès examined the various articles shown to him with the same attention that he had bestowed on the curiosities and strange tools exhibited in the shops at Marseilles as the works of the savages in the South Seas from whence they had been brought by the different trading vessels.
“As for the ink,” said Faria, “I told you how I managed to obtain that—and I only just make it from time to time, as I require it.”
“One thing still puzzles me,” observed Dantès, “and that is how you managed to do all this by daylight?”
“I worked at night also,” replied Faria.
“Night!—why, for Heaven’s sake, are your eyes like cats’, that you can see to work in the dark?”
“Indeed they are not; but God has supplied man with the intelligence that enables him to overcome the limitations of natural conditions. I furnished myself with a light.”
“You did? Pray tell me how.”
“I separated the fat from the meat served to me, melted it, and so made oil—here is my lamp.” So saying, the abbé exhibited a sort of torch very similar to those used in public illuminations.
“But how do you procure a light?”