Уильям Голдман - The Princess Bride

His request was, naturally, granted. The Prince hurried off then, and, after one stop to unlock a closet and remove several pairs of boots that had once belonged to Guilderian soldiers, he hurried outside.

Buttercup, for her part, walked very slowly and peacefully between the old King and Queen. There was no need ever to worry, not with Westley there to stop her wedding and take her away forever. The truth of her situation did not take genuine effect until she was halfway to Humperdinck's room.

There was no Westley.

No sweet Westley. He had not seen fit to come for her.

She gave a terrible sigh. Not so much of sadness as of farewell. Once she got to Humperdinck's room, it would all be done. He had a splendid collection of swords and cutlery.

She had never seriously contemplated suicide before. Oh, of course she'd thought about it; every girl does from time to time. But never seriously. To her quiet surprise, she found it was going to be the easiest thing in the world. She reached the Prince's chamber, said good night to the Royal Family, and went directly to the wall display of weaponry. The time was then 5:46.

INIGO, AT 5:37, was so startled at the Count's cowardice that for a moment he simply stood there. Then he gave chase and, of course, he was faster, but the Count made it through a doorway, slammed and locked it, and Inigo was helpless to budge the thing. "Fezzik," he called out desperately, "Fezzik, break it down."

But Fezzik was with Westley. That was his job, to stay and protect Westley, and though they were still within view of Inigo, Fezzik could do nothing; Westley had already started to walk. Slowly. Weakly. But he was, under his own power, walking.

"Charge it," Fezzik replied. "Slam your shoulder hard. It will give for you."

Inigo charged the door. He slammed and slammed his shoulder, but he was thin, the door otherwise. "He's getting away from me," Inigo said.

"But Westley is helpless," Fezzik reminded him.

"Fezzik, I need you," Inigo screamed.

"I'll only be a minute," Fezzik said, because there were some things you did, no matter what, and when a friend needed help, you helped him.

Westley nodded, kept on walking, still slowly, still weak, but still able to move.

"Hurry," Inigo urged.

Fezzik hurried. He lumbered to the locked door, threw his bulk against it hard.

The door held.

"Please," Inigo urged.

"I'll get it, I'll get it," Fezzik promised, and he took a few steps back this time, then drove his shoulder against the wood.

The door gave some. A little. But not enough.

Fezzik backed away from it now. With a roar he charged across the corridor and when he was close he left the castle floor with both feet and the door splintered.

"Thank you, thank you," Inigo said, already halfway through the broken door.

"What do I do now though?" Fezzik called.

"Back to Westley," Inigo answered, in full flight now, beginning chasing through a series of rooms.

"Stupid," Fezzik punished himself with, and he turned and rejoined Westley. Only Westley was no longer there. Fezzik could feel the panic starting inside him. There were half a dozen possible corridors. "Which which which?" Fezzik said, trying to figure it out, trying for once in his life to do something right. "You'll pick the wrong one, knowing you," he said out loud, and then he took a corridor and started hurrying along it as fast as he could.

He did pick the wrong one.

Westley was alone now.

INIGO WAS GAINING. He could see, instant to instant, flashes of the fleeing noble in the next room, and when he reached that place, the Count would have made it into the room beyond. But each time, Inigo was gaining. By 5:40, he felt confident he would, after a chase of twenty-five years, be alone in a room with his revenge.

BY 5:48, BUTTERCUP felt quite sure she would be dead. It was still a minute before that as she stood staring at the Prince's knives. The most lethal looked to be the one most used, the Florinese dagger. Pointed at one end, it entered easily, growing into a triangular shape by the hilt. For quicker bleeding, it was said. They were made in varying sizes, and the Prince's looked to be one of the largest, being wrist thick where it joined the handle. She pulled it from the wall, put it to her heart.

"There are always too few perfect breasts in this world; leave yours alone," she heard. And there was Westley on the bed. It was 5:48, and she knew that she would never die.

Westley, for his part, assumed he had till 6:15 for his hour to be up. That was, of course, when an hour was up, only he didn't have an hour; only forty minutes. Till 5:55, actually. Seven minutes more. But, as has been said, he had no way of knowing that.

AND INIGO HAD no way of knowing that Count Rugen had a Florinese dagger. Or that he was expert with the thing. It took Inigo until 5:41 before he actually cornered the Count. In a billiard room. "Hello," he was about to say. "My name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father; prepare to die." What he actually got out was somewhat less: "Hello, my name is Ini—"

And then the dagger rearranged his insides. The force of the throw sent him staggering backward into the wall. The rush of blood weakened him so quickly he could not keep his feet. "Domingo, Domingo," he whispered, and then he was, at forty-two minutes after five, lost on his knees....

BUTTERCUP WAS BAFFLED by Westley's behavior. She rushed to him, expecting to be met halfway in a wild embrace. Instead, he only smiled at her and remained where he was, lying on the Prince's pillows, a sword beside his body.

Buttercup continued the journey alone and fell onto her very one and darling Westley.

"Gently," he said.

"At a time like this that's all you can think to say? 'Gently'?"

" Gently, " Westley repeated, not so gently this time.

She got off him. "Are you angry at me for getting married?" she wondered.

"You are not married," he said, softly. Strange his voice was. "Not in my church or any other."

"But this old man did pronounce—"

"Widows happen. Every day—don't they, Your Highness?" And now his voice was stronger as he addressed the Prince, who entered, muddy boots in hand.

Prince Humperdinck dove for his weapons, and a sword flashed in his thick hands. "To the death," he said, advancing.

Westley gave a soft shake of his head. "No," he corrected. "To the pain."

It was an odd phrase, and for the moment it brought the Prince up short. Besides, why was the fellow just lying there? Where was the trap? "I don't think I quite understand that."

Westley lay without moving but he was smiling more deeply now. "I'll be only too delighted to explain." It was 5:50 now. Twenty-five minutes of safety left. (There were five. He did not know that. How could he know that?) Slowly, carefully, he began to talk....

INIGO WAS TALKING too. It was still 5:42 when he whispered, "I'm ... sorry ... Father.... "

Count Rugen heard the words but nothing really connected until he saw the sword still held in Inigo's hand. "You're that little Spanish brat I taught a lesson to," he said, coming closer now, examining the scars. "It's simply incredible. Have you been chasing me all these years only to fail now? I think that's the worst thing I ever heard of; how marvelous."

Inigo could say nothing. The blood fauceted from his stomach.

Count Rugen drew his sword.

"...sorry, Father ... I'm sorry.... "

'I DON'T WANT YOUR "SORRY"! MY NAME IS DOMINGO MONTOYA AND I DIED FOR THAT SWORD AND YOU CAN KEEP YOUR "SORRY." IF YOU WERE GOING TO FAIL, WHY DIDN'T YOU DIE YEARS AGO AND LET ME REST IN PEACE?' And then MacPherson was after him too—'Spaniards! I never should have tried to teach a Spaniard; they're dumb, they forget, what do you do with a wound? How many times did I teach you— what do you do with a wound ?'