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'?'
'
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—
'Cover it...' Inigo said, and he pulled the knife from his body and stuffed his left fist into the bleeding.
Inigo's eyes began to focus again, not well, not perfectly, but enough to see the Count's blade as it approached his heart, and Inigo couldn't do much with the attack, parry it vaguely, push the point of the blade into his left shoulder where it did no unendurable harm.
Count Rugen was a bit surprised that his point had been deflected, but there was nothing wrong with piercing a helpless man's shoulder. There was no hurry when you had him.
MacPherson was screaming again—'Spaniards! Give me a Polack anytime; at least the Polacks remember to use the wall when they have one; only the Spaniards would forget to use a wall—'
Slowly, inch by inch, Inigo forced his body up the wall, using his legs just for pushing, letting the wall do all the supporting that was necessary.
Count Rugen struck again, but for any number of reasons, most probably because he hadn't expected the other man's movement, he missed the heart and had to be content with driving his blade through the Spaniard's left arm.
Inigo didn't mind. He didn't even feel it. His right arm was where his interest lay, and he squeezed the handle and there was strength in his hand, enough to flick out at the enemy, and Count Rugen hadn't expected that either, so he gave a little involuntary cry and took a step back to reassess the situation.
Power was flowing up from Inigo's heart to his right shoulder and down from his shoulder to his fingers and then into the great six-fingered sword and he pushed off from the wall then, with a whispered, '...hello ... my name is ... Inigo Montoya; you killed ... my father; prepare to die.'
And they crossed swords.
The Count went for the quick kill, the inverse Bonetti
No chance.
'Hello ... my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father ... prepare to die....'
Again they crossed, and the Count moved into a Morozzo defense, because the blood was still streaming.
Inigo shoved his fist deeper into himself. 'Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father; prepare to die.'
The Count retreated around the billiard table.
Inigo slipped in his own blood.
The Count continued to retreat, waiting, waiting.
'Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father; prepare to die.' He dug with his fist and he didn't want to think what he was touching and pushing and holding into place but for the first time he felt able to try a move, so the six-fingered sword flashed forward—
—and there was a cut down one side of Count Rugen's cheek—
—another flash—
—another cut, parallel, bleeding—
'Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya; you killed my father; prepare to die.'
'Stop saying that!' The Count was beginning to experience a decline of nerve.
Inigo drove for the Count's left shoulder, as the Count had wounded his. Then he went through the Count's left arm, at the same spot the Count had penetrated his. 'Hello.' Stronger now. 'Hello! HELLO. MY NAME IS INIGO MONTOYA. YOU KILLED MY FATHER. PREPARE TO DIE!'
'No—'
'Offer me money—'
'Everything,' the Count said.
'Power too. Promise me that.'
'All I have and more. Please.'
'Offer me anything I ask for.'
'Yes. Yes. Say it.'
'I WANT DOMINGO MONTOYA, YOU SON OF A BITCH,' and the six-fingered sword flashed again.
The Count screamed.
'That was just to the left of your heart.' Inigo struck again.
Another scream.
'That was below your heart. Can you guess what I'm doing?'
'Cutting my heart out.'
'You took mine when I was ten; I want yours now. We are lovers of justice, you and I—what could be more just than that?'
The Count screamed one final time and then fell dead of fear.
Inigo looked down at him. The Count's frozen face was petrified and ashen and the blood still poured down the parallel cuts. His eyes bulged wide, full of horror and pain. It was glorious. If you like that kind of thing.
Inigo loved it.
It was 5:50 when he staggered from the room, heading he knew not where or for how long, but hoping only that whoever had been guiding him lately would not desert him now....
'I'M GOING TO tell you something once and then whether you die or not is strictly up to you,' Westley said, lying pleasantly on the bed. Across the room, the Prince held the sword high. 'What I'm going to tell you is this: drop your sword, and if you do, then I will leave with this baggage here'—he glanced at Buttercup—'and you will be
