Боченя амонтільядо

           Thegaitofmyfriendwasunsteady,andthebellsuponhiscapjingledashestrode. 

           “Thepipe,”hesaid. 

           “Itisfartheron,”saidI;“butobservethewhiteweb-workwhichgleamsfromthesecavernwalls.” 

           Heturnedtowardsme,andlookedintomyeveswithtwofilmyorbsthatdistilledtherheumofintoxication. 

           “Nitre?”heasked,atlength. 

           “Nitre,”Ireplied.“Howlonghaveyouhadthatcough?” 

           “Ugh!ugh!ugh!—ugh!ugh!ugh!—ugh!ugh!ugh!—ugh!ugh!ugh!—ugh!ugh!ugh!” 

           Mypoorfriendfounditimpossibletoreplyformanyminutes. 

           “Itisnothing,”hesaid,atlast. 

           “Come,”Isaid,withdecision,“wewillgoback;yourhealthisprecious. Youarerich,respected,admired,beloved;youarehappy,asonceIwas. Youareamantobemissed.Formeitisnomatter. Wewillgoback;youwillbeill,andIcannotberesponsible.Besides,thereisLuchresi—” 

           “Enough,”hesaid;“thecough’samerenothing;itwillnotkillme.Ishallnotdieofacough.” 

           “True—true,”Ireplied;“and,indeed,Ihadnointentionofalarmingyouunnecessarily—butyoushoulduseallpropercaution. AdraughtofthisMedocwilldefendusfromthedamps. 

           HereIknockedofftheneckofabottlewhichIdrewfromalongrowofitsfellowsthatlayuponthemould.