Dantès practically lifted his new companion off his feet, dragging him toward the small window to get a better look at him in the dim light that barely made it through the iron bars.
The man was short and thin, his hair gone white, not from old age, but from years of suffering and despair. His eyes were deep-set and sharp, almost hidden under thick gray eyebrows, and a long black beard hung down to his chest. His face was gaunt and lined with worry, the features of someone who spent more time thinking than fighting. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his clothes were so torn and ragged you could barely tell what they used to look like.
