Боченя амонтільядо

           “Drink,”Isaid,presentinghimthewine. 

           Heraisedittohislipswithaleer.Hepausedandnoddedtomefamiliarly,whilehisbellsjingled. 

           “Idrink,”hesaid,“totheburiedthatreposearoundus.” 

           “AndItoyourlonglife.” 

           Heagaintookmyarm,andweproceeded. 

           “Thesevaults,”hesaid,“areextensive.” 

           “TheMontresors,”Ireplied,“wereagreatandnumerousfamily.” 

           “Iforgetyourarms.” 

           “Ahugehumanfootd’or,inafieldazure;thefootcrushesaserpentrampantwhosefangsareimbeddedintheheel.” 

           “Andthemotto?” 

           “Nemomeimpunelacessit.” 

           “Good!”hesaid. 

           Thewinesparkledinhiseyesandthebellsjingled.MyownfancygrewwarmwiththeMedoc. Wehadpassedthroughlongwallsofpiledskeletons,withcasksandpuncheonsintermingling,intotheinmostrecessesofthecatacombs. Ipausedagain,andthistimeImadeboldtoseizeFortunatobyanarmabovetheelbow. 

           “Thenitre!”Isaid;“see,itincreases.Ithangslikemossuponthevaults.Wearebelowtheriver’sbed. Thedropsofmoisturetrickleamongthebones.Come,wewillgobackereitistoolate.Yourcough—” 

           “Itisnothing,”hesaid;“letusgoon.Butfirst,anotherdraughtoftheMedoc.”