William Goldman - THE PRINCESS BRIDE

I didn't even know this chapter existed until I began the 'good parts' version. All my father used to say at this point was, What with one thing and another, three years passed,' and then he'd explain how the day came when Buttercup was officially introduced to the world as the coming queen, and how the Great Square of Florin City was filled as never before, awaiting her introduction, and by then, he was into the terrific business dealing with the kidnapping.
Would you believe that in the original Morgenstern this is the longest single chapter in the book?
Fifteen pages about how Humperdinck can't marry a common subject, so they fight and argue with the nobles and finally make Buttercup Princess of Hammersmith, which was this little lump of land attached to the rear of King Lotharon's holdings.
Then the miracle man began improving King Lotharon, and eighteen pages are used up in describing the cures. (Morgenstern hated doctors, and was always bitter when they outlawed miracle men from working in Florin proper.)
And seventy-two—count 'em—seventy-two pages on the training of a princess. He follows Buttercup day to day, month to month, as she learns all the ways of curtsying and tea pouring and how to address visiting nabobs and like that. All this in a satiric vein, naturally, since Morgenstern hated royalty more even than doctors.
But from a narrative point of view, in 105 pages nothing happens . Except this: 'What with one thing and another, three years passed.'

The great square of florin city was filled as never before, awaiting the introduction of Prince Humperdinck's bride-to-be, Princess Buttercup of Hammersmith. The crowd had begun forming some forty hours earlier, but up to twenty-four hours before, there were still fewer than one thousand. But then, as the moment of introduction grew nearer, from across the country the people came. None had ever seen the Princess, but rumors of her beauty were continual and each was less possible than the one before.
At noontime, Prince Humperdinck appeared at the balcony of his father's castle and raised his arms. The crowd, which by now was at the danger size, slowly quieted. There were stories that the King was dying, that he was already dead, that he had been dead long since, that he was fine.
«My people, my beloveds, from whom we draw our strength, today is a day of greeting. As you must have heard, my honored father's health is not what it once was. He is, of course, ninety-seven, so who can ask more. As you also know, Florin needs a male heir.»
The crowd began to stir now—it was to be this lady they had heard so much about.
«In three months, our country celebrates its five hundredth anniversary. To celebrate that celebration, I shall, on that sundown, take for my wife the Princess Buttercup of Hammersmith. You do not know her yet. But you will meet her now,» and he made a sweeping gesture and the balcony doors swung open and Buttercup moved out beside him on the balcony.
And the crowd, quite literally, gasped.
The twenty-one-year-old Princess far surpassed the eighteen-year-old mourner. Her figure faults were gone, the too bony elbow having fleshed out nicely; the opposite pudgy wrist could not have been trimmer. her hair, which was once the color of autumn, was still the color of autumn, except that before, she had tended it herself, whereas now she had five full-time hairdressers who managed things for her. (this was long after hairdressers; in truth, ever since there have been women, there have been hairdressers, adam being the first, though the king james scholars do their very best to muddy this point.) her skin was still wintry cream, but now, with two handmaidens assigned to each appendage and four for the rest of her, it actually, in certain lights, seemed to provide her with a gentle, continually moving as she moved, glow.
Prince Humperdinck took her hand and held it high and the crowd cheered. «That's enough, mustn't risk overexposure,» the Prince said, and he started back in toward the castle.
«They have waited, some of them, so long,» Buttercup answered. «I would like to walk among them.»
«We do not walk among commoners unless it is unavoidable,» the Prince said.
«I have known more than a few commoners in my time,» Buttercup told him. «They will not, I think, harm me.»
And with that she left the balcony, reappeared a moment later on the great steps of the castle and, quite alone, walked open-armed down into the crowd.
Wherever she went, the people parted. She crossed and recrossed the Great Square and always, ahead of her, the people swept apart to let her pass. Buttercup continued, moving slowly and smiling, alone, like some land messiah.
Most of the people there would never forget that day. None of them, of course, had ever been so close to perfection, and the great majority adored her instantly. There were, to be sure, some who, while admitting she was pleasing enough, were withholding judgment as to her quality as a queen. And, of course, there were some more who were frankly jealous. Very few of them hated her.
And only three of them were planning to murder her.
Buttercup, naturally, knew none of this. She was smiling, and when people wanted to touch her gown, well, let them, and when they wanted to brush their skin against hers, well, let them do that too. She had studied hard to do things royally, and she wanted very much to succeed, so she kept her posture erect and her smile gentle, and that her death was so close would have only made her laugh, if someone had told her. but—
—in the farthest corner of the Great Square—
—in the highest building in the land—
—deep in the deepest shadow—
—the man in black stood waiting.
His boots were black and leather. His pants were black and his shirt. His mask was black, blacker than raven. But blackest of all were his flashing eyes.
Flashing and cruel and deadly . . .

Buttercup was more than a little weary after her triumph. The touching of the crowds had exhausted her, so she rested a bit, and then, toward midafternoon, she changed into her riding clothes and went to fetch Horse. This was the one aspect of her life that had not changed in the years preceding. She still loved to ride, and every afternoon, weather permitting or not, she rode alone for several hours in the wild land beyond the castle.
She did her best thinking then.
Not that her best thinking ever expanded horizons. Still, she told herself, she was not a dummy either, so as long as she kept her thoughts to herself, well, where was the harm?
As she rode through woods and streams and heather, her brain was awhirl. The walk through the crowds had moved her, and in a way most strange. For even though she had done nothing for three years now but train to be a princess and a queen, today was the first day she actually understood that it was all soon to be a reality.
And I just don't like Humperdinck, she thought. It's not that I hate him or anything. I just never see him; he's always off someplace or playing in the Zoo of Death.
To Buttercup's way of thinking, there were two main problems: (1) was it wrong to marry without like, and (2) if it was, was it too late to do anything about it.
The answers, to her way of thinking, as she rode along, were: (1) no and (2) yes.
It wasn't wrong to marry someone you didn't like, it just wasn't right either. If the whole world did it, that wouldn't be so great, what with everybody kind of grunting at everybody else as the years went by. but, of course, not everybody did it; so forget about that. the answer to (2) was even easier: she had given her word she would marry; that would have to be enough. true, he had told her quite honestly that if she said «no» he would have to have her disposed of, in order to keep respect for the crown at its proper level; still, she could have, had she so chosen, said «no.»
Everyone had told her, since she became a princess-in-training, that she was very likely the most beautiful woman in the world. Now she was going to be the richest and most powerful as well.
Don't expect too much from life, Buttercup told herself as she rode along. Learn to be satisfied with what you have.

Dusk was closing in when Buttercup crested the hill. She was perhaps half an hour from the castle, and her daily ride was three-quarters done. Suddenly she reined Horse, for standing in the dimness beyond was the strangest trio she had ever seen.
The man in front was dark, Sicilian perhaps, with the gentlest face, almost angelic. He had one leg too short, and the makings of a humpback, but he moved forward toward her with surprising speed and nimbleness. The other two remained rooted. The second, also dark, probably Spanish, was as erect and slender as the blade of steel that was attached to his side. The third man, mustachioed, perhaps a Turk, was easily the biggest human being she had ever ever seen.
«A word?» the Sicilian said, raising his arms. His smile was more angelic than his face.
Buttercup halted. «Speak.»
«We are but poor circus performers,» the Sicilian explained. «It is dark and we are lost. We were told there was a village nearby that might enjoy our skills.»
«You were misinformed,» Buttercup told him. «There is no one, not for many miles.»
«Then there will be no one to hear you scream,» the Sicilian said, and he jumped with frightening agility toward her face.
That was all that Buttercup remembered. Perhaps she did scream, but if she did it was more from terror than anything else, because certainly there was no pain. His hands expertly touched places on her neck, and unconsciousness came.
She awoke to the lapping of water.
She was wrapped in a blanket and the giant Turk was putting her in the bottom of a boat. for a moment she was about to talk, but then when they began talking, she thought it better to listen. and after she had listened for a moment, it got harder and harder to hear. because of the terrible pounding of her heart.
«I think you should kill her now,» the Turk said.
«The less you think, the happier I'll be,» the Sicilian answered.
There was the sound of ripping cloth.
«What is that?» the Spaniard asked.
«The same as I attached to her saddle,» the Sicilian replied. «Fabric from the uniform of an officer of Guilder.»
«I still think—« the Turk began.
«She must be found dead on the Guilder frontier or we will not be paid the remainder of our fee. Is that clear enough for you?»
«I just feel better when I know what's going on, that's all,» the Turk mumbled. «People are always thinking I'm so stupid because I'm big and strong and sometimes drool a little when I get excited.»
«The reason people think you're so stupid,» the Sicilian said, «is because you are so stupid. It has nothing to do with your drooling.»
There came the sound of a flapping of sail. «Watch your heads,» the Spaniard cautioned, and then the boat was moving. «The people of Florin will not take her death well, I shouldn't think. She has become beloved.»
«There will be war,» the Sicilian agreed. «We have been paid to start it. It's a fine line of work to be expert in. If we do this perfectly, there will be a continual demand for our services.»
«Well I don't like it all that much,» the Spaniard said. «Frankly, I wish you had refused.»
«The offer was too high.»
«I don't like killing a girl,» the Spaniard said.
«God does it all the time; if it doesn't bother Him, don't let it worry you.»
Through all this, Buttercup had not moved.
The Spaniard said, «Let's just tell her we're taking her away for ransom.»
The Turk agreed. «She's so beautiful and she'd go all crazy if she knew.»
«She knows already,» the Sicilian said. «She's been awake for every word of this.»
Buttercup lay under the blanket, not moving. How could he have known that, she wondered.
«How can you be sure?» the Spaniard asked.
«The Sicilian senses all,» the Sicilian said.
Conceited, Buttercup thought.
«Yes, very conceited,» the Sicilian said.
He must be a mind reader, Buttercup thought.
«Are you giving it full sail?» the Sicilian said.
«As much as is safe,» the Spaniard answered from the tiller.
«We have an hour on them, so no risks yet. It will take her horse perhaps twenty-seven minutes to reach the castle, a few minutes more for them to figure out what happened and, since we left an obvious trail, they should be after us within an hour. We should reach the Cliffs in fifteen minutes more and, with any luck at all, the Guilder frontier at dawn, when she dies. Her body should be quite warm when the Prince reaches her mutilated form. I only wish we could stay for his grief—it should be Homeric.»
Why does he let me know his plans, Buttercup wondered.
«You are going back to sleep now, my lady,» the Spaniard said, and his fingers suddenly were touching her temple, her shoulder, her neck, and she was unconscious again. . . .
Buttercup did not know how long she was out, but they were still in the boat when she blinked, the blanket shielding her. And this time, without daring to think—the Sicilian would have known it somehow—she threw the blanket aside and dove deep into Florin Channel.
She stayed under for as long as she dared and then surfaced, starting to swim across the moonless water with every ounce of strength remaining to her. Behind her in the darkness there were cries.
«Go in, go in!» from the Sicilian.
«I only dog paddle» from the Turk.
«You're better than I am» from the Spaniard.
Buttercup continued to leave them behind her. Her arms ached from effort but she gave them no rest. Her legs kicked and her heart pounded.
«I can hear her kicking,» the Sicilian said. «Veer left.»
Buttercup went into her breast stroke, silently swimming away.
«Where is she?» shrieked the Sicilian.
«The sharks will get her, don't worry,» cautioned the Spaniard.
Oh dear, I wish you hadn't mentioned that, thought Buttercup.
«Princess,» the Sicilian called, «do you know what happens to sharks when they smell blood in the water? They go mad. There is no controlling their wildness. They rip and shred and chew and devour, and I'm in a boat, Princess, and there isn't any blood in the water now, so we're both quite safe, but there is a knife in my hand, my lady, and if you don't come back I'll cut my arms and I'll cut my legs and I'll catch the blood in a cup and I'll fling it as far as I can and sharks can smell blood in the water for miles and you won't be beautiful for long.»
Buttercup hesitated, silently treading water. Around her now, although it was surely her imagination, she seemed to be hearing the swish of giant tails.
«Come back and come back now. There will be no other warning.»
Buttercup thought, If I come back, they'll kill me anyway, so what's the difference?
«The difference is—«
There he goes doing that again, thought Buttercup. He really is a mind reader.
«—if you come back now,» the Sicilian went on, «I give you my word as a gentleman and assassin that you will die totally without pain. I assure you, you will get no such promise from the sharks.»
The fish sounds in the night were closer now.
Buttercup began to tremble with fear. She was terribly ashamed of herself but there it was. She only wished she could see for a minute if there really were sharks and if he really would cut himself.
The Sicilian winced out loud.
«He just cut his arm, lady,» the Turk called out. «He's catching the blood in a cup now. There must be a half-inch of blood on the bottom.»
The Sicilian winced again.
«He cut his leg this time,» the Turk went on. «The cup's getting full.»
I don't believe them, Buttercup thought. There are no sharks in the water and there is no blood in his cup.
«My arm is back to throw,» the Sicilian said. «Call out your location or not, the choice is yours.»
I'm not making a peep, Buttercup decided.
«Farewell,» from the Sicilian.
There was the splashing sound of liquid landing on liquid.
Then there came a pause.
Then the sharks went mad—

'She does not get eaten by the sharks at this time,' my father said.
I looked up at him. 'What?'
'You looked like you were getting too involved and bothered so I thought I would let you relax.'
'Oh, for Pete's sake,' I said, you 'd think I was a baby or something. What kind of stuff is that?' I really sounded put out, but I'll tell you the truth: I was getting a little too involved and I was glad he told me. I mean, when you're a kid, you don't think, Well, since the book's called The Princess Bride and since we're barely into it, obviously, the author's not about to make shark kibble of his leading lady. You get hooked on things when you're a youngster; so to any youngsters reading, I'll simply repeat my father's words since they worked to soothe me: 'She does not get eaten by the sharks at this time.'

Then the sharks went mad. All around her, Buttercup could hear them beeping and screaming and thrashing their mighty tails. Nothing can save me, Buttercup realized. I'm a dead cookie.
Fortunately for all concerned save the sharks, it was around this time that the moon came out.
«There she is,» shouted the Sicilian, and like lightning the Spaniard turned the boat and as the boat drew close the Turk reached out a giant arm and then she was back in the safety of her murderers while all around them the sharks bumped each other in wild frustration.
«Keep her warm,» the Spaniard said from the tiller, tossing his cloak to the Turk.
«Don't catch cold,» the Turk said, wrapping Buttercup into the cloak's folds.
«It doesn't seem to matter all that much,» she answered, «seeing you're killing me at dawn.»
«He'll do the actual work,» the Turk said, indicating the Sicilian, who was wrapping cloth around his cuts. «We'll just hold you.»
«Hold your stupid tongue,» the Sicilian commanded.
The Turk immediately hushed.
«I don't think he's so stupid,» Buttercup said. «And I don't think you're so smart either, with all your throwing blood in the water. That's not what I would call grade-A thinking.»
«It worked, didn't it? You're back, aren't you?» The Sicilian crossed toward her. «Once women are sufficiently frightened, they scream.»
«But I didn't scream; the moon came out,» answered Buttercup somewhat triumphantly.
The Sicilian struck her.
«Enough of that,» the Turk said then.
The tiny humpback looked dead at the giant. «Do you want to fight me? I don't think you do.»
«No, sir,» the Turk mumbled. «No. But don't use force. Please. Force is mine. Strike me if you feel the need. I won't care.»
The Sicilian returned to the other side of the boat. «She would have screamed,» he said. «She was about to cry out. My plan was ideal as all my plans are ideal. It was the moon's ill timing that robbed me of perfection.» He scowled unforgivingly at the yellow wedge above them. Then he stared ahead. «There!» The Sicilian pointed. «The Cliffs of Insanity.»
And there they were. Rising straight and sheer from the water, a thousand feet into the night. They provided the most direct route between Florin and Guilder, but no one ever used them, sailing instead the long way, many miles around. Not that the Cliffs were impossible to scale; two men were known to have climbed them in the last century alone.
«Sail straight for the steepest part,» the Sicilian commanded.
The Spaniard said, «I was.»
Buttercup did not understand. Going up the Cliffs could hardly be done she thought; and no one had ever mentioned secret passages through them. Yet here they were, sailing closer and closer to the mighty rocks, now surely less than a quarter-mile away.
For the first time the Sicilian allowed himself a smile. «All is well. I was afraid your little jaunt in the water was going to cost me too much time. I had allowed an hour of safety. There must still be fifty minutes of it left. We are miles ahead of anybody and safe, safe, safe.»
«No one could be following us yet?» the Spaniard asked.
«No one,» the Sicilian assured him. «It would be inconceivable.»
«Absolutely inconceivable?»
«Absolutely, totally, and, in all other ways, inconceivable,» the Sicilian reassured him. «Why do you ask?»
«No reason,» the Spaniard replied. «It's only that I just happened to look back and something's there.»
They all whirled.
Something was indeed there. Less than a mile behind them across the moonlight was another sailing boat, small, painted what looked like black, with a giant sail that billowed black in the night, and a single man at the tiller. A man in black.
The Spaniard looked at the Sicilian. «It must just be some local fisherman out for a pleasure cruise alone at night through shark-infested waters.»
«There is probably a more logical explanation,» the Sicilian said. «But since no one in Guilder could know yet what we've done, and no one in Florin could have gotten here so quickly, he is definitely not, however much it may look like it, following us. It is coincidence and nothing more.»
«He's gaining on us,» the Turk said.
«That is also inconceivable,» the Sicilian said. «Before I stole this boat we're in, I made many inquiries as to what was the fastest ship on all of Florin Channel and everyone agreed it was this one.»
«You're right,» the Turk agreed, staring back. «He isn't gaining on us. He's just getting closer, that's all.»
«It is the angle we're looking from and nothing more,» said the Sicilian.
Buttercup could not take her eyes from the great black sail. Surely the three men she was with frightened her. But somehow, for reasons she could never begin to explain, the man in black frightened her more.
«All right, look sharp,» the Sicilian said then, just a drop of edginess in his voice.
The Cliffs of Insanity were very close now.
The Spaniard maneuvered the craft expertly, which was not easy, and the waves were rolling in toward the rocks now and the spray was blinding. Buttercup shielded her eyes and put her head straight back, staring up into the darkness toward the top, which seemed shrouded and out of reach.
Then the humpback bounded forward, and as the ship reached the cliff face, he jumped up and suddenly there was a rope in his hand.
Buttercup stared in silent astonishment. The rope, thick and strong, seemed to travel all the way up the Cliffs. As she watched, the Sicilian pulled at the rope again and again and it held firm. It was attached to something at the top—a giant rock, a towering tree, something.
«Fast now,» the Sicilian ordered. «If he is following us, which of course is not within the realm of human experience, but if he is, we've got to reach the top and cut the rope off before he can climb up after us.»
«Climb?» Buttercup said. «I would never be able to—«
«Hush!» the Sicilian ordered her. «Get ready!» he ordered the Spaniard. «Sink it,» he ordered the Turk.
And then everyone got busy. The Spaniard took a rope, tied Buttercup's hands and feet. The Turk raised a great leg and stomped down at the center of the boat, which gave way immediately and began to sink. Then the Turk went to the rope and took it in his hands.
«Load me,» the Turk said.
The Spaniard lifted Buttercup and draped her body around the Turk's shoulders. Then he tied himself to the Turk's waist. Then the Sicilian hopped, clung to the Turk's neck.
«All aboard,» the Sicilian said. (This was before trains, but the expression comes originally from carpenters loading lumber, and this was well after carpenters.)
With that the Turk began to climb. It was at least a thousand feet and he was carrying the three, but he was not worried. When it came to power, nothing worried him. When it came to reading, he got knots in the middle of his stomach, and when it came to writing, he broke out in a cold sweat, and when addition was mentioned or, worse, long division, he always changed the subject right away.
But strength had never been his enemy. He could take the kick of a horse on his chest and not fall backward. He could take a hundred-pound flour sack between his legs and scissor it open without thinking. he had once held an elephant aloft using only the muscles in his back.
But his real might lay in his arms. There had never, not in a thousand years, been arms to match Fezzik's. (For that was his name.) The arms were not only Gargantuan and totally obedient and surprisingly quick, but they were also, and this is why he never worried, tireless. If you gave him an ax and told him to chop down a forest, his legs might give out from having to support so much weight for so long, or the ax might shatter from the punishment of killing so many trees, but Fezzik's arms would be as fresh tomorrow as today.
And so, even with the Sicilian on his neck and the Princess around his shoulders and the Spaniard at his waist, Fezzik did not feel in the least bit put upon. He was actually quite happy, because it was only when he was requested to use his might that he felt he wasn't a bother to everybody.
Up he climbed, arm over arm, arm over arm, two hundred feet now above the water, eight hundred feet now to go.
More than any of them, the Sicilian was afraid of heights. All of his nightmares, and they were never far from him when he slept, dealt with falling. So this terrifying ascension was most difficult for him, perched as he was on the neck of the giant. Or should have been most difficult.
But he would not allow it.
From the beginning, when as a child he realized his humped body would never conquer worlds, he relied on his mind. He trained it, fought it, brought it to heel. So now, three hundred feet in the night and rising higher, while he should have been trembling, he was not.
Instead he was thinking of the man in black.
There was no way anyone could have been quick enough to follow them. And yet from some devil's world that billowing black sail had appeared. How? How? The Sicilian flogged his mind to find an answer, but he found only failure. In wild frustration he took a deep breath and, in spite of his terrible fears, he looked back down toward the dark water.
The man in black was still there, sailing like lightning toward the Cliffs. He could not have been more than a quarter-mile from them now.
«Faster!» the Sicilian commanded.
«I'm sorry,» the Turk answered meekly. «I thought I was going faster.»
«Lazy, lazy,» spurred the Sicilian.
«I'll never improve,» the Turk answered, but his arms began to move faster than before. «I cannot see too well because your feet are locked around my face,» he went on, «so could you tell me please if we're halfway yet?»
«A little over, I should think,» said the Spaniard from his position around the giant's waist. «You're doing wonderfully, Fezzik.»
«Thank you,» said the giant.
«And he's closing on the Cliffs,» added the Spaniard.
No one had to ask who «he» was.
Six hundred feet now. The arms continued to pull, over and over. Six hundred and twenty feet. Six hundred and fifty. Now faster than ever. Seven hundred.
«He's left his boat behind,» the Spaniard said. «He's jumped onto our rope. He's starting up after us.»
«I can feel him,» Fezzik said. «His body weight on the rope.»
«He'll never catch up!» the Sicilian cried. «Inconceivable!»
«You keep using that word!» the Spaniard snapped. «I don't think it means what you think it does.»
«How fast is he at climbing?» Fezzik said.
«I'm frightened» was the Spaniard's reply.
The Sicilian gathered his courage again and looked down.
The man in black seemed almost to be flying. Already he had cut their lead a hundred feet. Perhaps more.
«I thought you were supposed to be so strong!» the Sicilian shouted. «I thought you were this great mighty thing and yet he gains.»
«I'm carrying three people,» Fezzik explained. «He has only himself and—«
«Excuses are the refuge of cowards,» the Sicilian interrupted. He looked down again. The man in black had gained another hundred feet. He looked up now. The cliff tops were beginning to come into view. Perhaps a hundred and fifty feet more and they were safe.
Tied hand and foot, sick with fear, Buttercup wasn't sure what she wanted to happen. Except this much she knew: she didn't want to go through anything like it again.
«Fly, Fezzik!» the Sicilian screamed. «A hundred feet to go.»
Fezzik flew. He cleared his mind of everything but ropes and arms and fingers, and his arms pulled and his fingers gripped and the rope held taut and—
«He's over halfway,» the Spaniard said.
«Halfway to doom is where he is,» the Sicilian said. «We're fifty feet from safety, and once we're there and I untie the rope . . .» He allowed himself to laugh.
Forty feet.
Fezzik pulled.
Twenty.
Ten.
It was over. Fezzik had done it. They had reached the top of the Cliffs, and first the Sicilian jumped off and then the Turk removed the Princess, and as the Spaniard untied himself, he looked back over the Cliffs.
The man in black was no more than three hundred feet away.
«It seems a shame,» the Turk said, looking down alongside the Spaniard. «Such a climber deserves better than—« He stopped talking then.
The Sicilian had untied the rope from its knots around an oak. The rope seemed almost alive, the greatest of all water serpents heading at last for home. It whipped across the cliff tops, spiraled into the moonlit Channel.
The Sicilian was roaring now, and he kept at it until the Spaniard said, «He did it.»
«Did what?» The humpback came scurrying to the cliff edge.
«Released the rope in time,» the Spaniard said. «See?» He pointed down.
The man in black was hanging in space, clinging to the sheer rock face, seven hundred feet above the water.
The Sicilian watched, fascinated. «You know,» he said, «since I've made a study of death and dying and am a great expert, it might interest you to know that he will be dead long before he hits the water. The fall will do it, not the crash.»
The man in black dangled helpless in space, clinging to the Cliffs with both hands.
«Oh, how rude we're being,» the Sicilian said then, turning to Buttercup. «I'm sure you'd like to watch.» He went to her and brought her, still tied hand and foot, so that she could watch the final pathetic struggle of the man in black three hundred feet below.
Buttercup closed her eyes, turned away.
«Shouldn't we be going?» the Spaniard asked. «I thought you were telling us how important time was.»
«It is, it is,» the Sicilian nodded. «But I just can't miss a death like this. If I could stage one of these every week and sell tickets, I could get out of the assassination business entirely. Look at him— do you think his life is passing before his eyes? That's what the books say.»
«He has very strong arms,» Fezzik commented. «To hold on so long.»
«He can't hold on much longer,» the Sicilian said. «He has to fall soon.»
It was at that moment that the man in black began to climb. Not quickly, of course. And not without great effort. But still, there was no doubt that he was, in spite of the sheerness of the Cliffs, heading in an upward direction.
«Inconceivable!» the Sicilian cried.
The Spaniard whirled on him.» Stop saying that word . It was inconceivable that anyone could follow us, but when we looked behind, there was the man in black. It was inconceivable that anyone could sail as fast as we could sail, and yet he gained on us. Now this too is inconceivable, but look—look—« and the Spaniard pointed down through the night. «See how he rises.»
The man in black was, indeed, rising. Somehow, in some almost miraculous way, his fingers were finding holds in the crevices, and he was now perhaps fifteen feet closer to the top, farther from death.
The Sicilian advanced on the Spaniard now, his wild eyes glittering at the insubordination. «I have the keenest mind that has ever been turned to unlawful pursuits,» he began, «so when I tell you something, it is not guesswork; it is fact! And the fact is that the man in black is not following us. A more logical explanation would be that he is simply an ordinary sailor who dabbles in mountain climbing as a hobby who happens to have the same general final destination as we do. That certainly satisfies me and I hope it satisfies you. In any case, we cannot take the risk of his seeing us with the Princess, and therefore one of you must kill him.»
«Shall I do it?» the Turk wondered.
The Sicilian shook his head. «No, Fezzik,» he said finally. «I need your strength to carry the girl. Pick her up now and let us hurry along.» He turned to the Spaniard. «We'll be heading directly for the frontier of Guilder. Catch up as quickly as you can once he's dead.»
The Spaniard nodded.
The Sicilian hobbled away.
The Turk hoisted the Princess, began following the humpback. Just before he lost sight of the Spaniard he turned and hollered, «Catch up quickly.»
«Don't I always?» The Spaniard waved. «Farewell, Fezzik.»
«Farewell, Inigo,» the Turk replied. And then he was gone, and the Spaniard was alone.
Inigo moved to the cliff edge and knelt with his customary quick grace. Two hundred and fifty feet below him now, the man in black continued his painful climb. Inigo lay flat, staring down, trying to pierce the moonlight and find the climber's secret. For a long while, Inigo did not move. He was a good learner, but not a particularly fast one, so he had to study. Finally, he realized that somehow, by some mystery, the man in black was making fists and jamming them into the rocks, and using them for support. Then he would reach up with his other hand, until he found a high split in the rock, and make another fist and jam it in. Whenever he could find support for his feet, he would use it, but mostly it was the jammed fists that made the climbing possible.
Inigo marveled. What a truly extraordinary adventurer this man in black must be. He was close enough now for Inigo to realize that the man was masked, a black hood covering all but his features. Another outlaw? Perhaps. Then why should they have to fight and for what? Inigo shook his head. It was a shame that such a fellow must die, but he had his orders, so there it was. Sometimes he did not like the Sicilian's commands, but what could he do? Without the brains of the Sicilian, he, Inigo, would never be able to command jobs of this caliber. The Sicilian was a master planner. Inigo was a creature of the moment. The Sicilian said «kill him,» so why waste sympathy on the man in black. Someday someone would kill Inigo, and the world would not stop to mourn.
He stood now, quickly jumping to his feet, his blade-thin body ready. For action. Only, the man in black was still many feet away.
There was nothing to do but wait for him. Inigo hated waiting. So to make the time more pleasant, he pulled from the scabbard his great, his only, love:
The six-fingered sword.
How it danced in the moonlight. How glorious and true. Inigo brought it to his lips and with all the fervor in his great Spanish heart kissed the metal. . . .