"But I have received a pipe of what passes for Amontillado, and I have my doubts.”
“Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Amontillado!"
“It is farther on."
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.
“Enough the cough is a mere nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of a cough.”
“It is this,” I answered, producing a trowel from beneath the folds of my roquelaire
“You are not of the masons.”
“You? Impossible! A mason?”
A moment more and I had fettered him to the granite. Inits surface were two iron staples, distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From one of these depended a short chain, from the other a padlock. Throwing the links about his waist.
“Yes, for the love of God!”
“He! he! he!—he! he! he!—yes, the Amontillado...Let us be gone.”
I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered it up.
“For the love of God, Montressor!”
“Fortunato!”No answer. I called again—“Fortunato!”