Боченя амонтільядо

           IbrokeandreachedhimaflagonofDeGrave.Heemptieditatabreath. Hiseyesflashedwithafiercelight. HelaughedandthrewthebottleupwardswithagesticulationIdidnotunderstand. 

           Ilookedathiminsurprise.Herepeatedthemovement—agrotesqueone. 

           “Youdonotcomprehend?”hesaid. 

           “NotI,”Ireplied. 

           “Thenyouarenotofthebrotherhood.” 

           “How?” 

           “Youarenotofthemasons.” 

           “Yes,yes,”Isaid;“yes,yes.” 

           “You?Impossible!Amason?” 

           “Amason,”Ireplied. 

           “Asign,”hesaid,“asign.” 

           “Itisthis,”Ianswered,producingfrombeneaththefoldsofmyroquelaireatrowel. 

           “Youjest,”heexclaimed,recoilingafewpaces.“ButletusproceedtotheAmontillado.” 

           “Beitso,”Isaid,replacingthetoolbeneaththecloakandagainofferinghimmyarm. Heleaneduponitheavily.WecontinuedourrouteinsearchoftheAmontillado. Wepassedthrougharangeoflowarches,descended,passedon,anddescendingagain,arrivedatadeepcrypt,inwhichthefoulnessoftheaircausedourflambeauxrathertoglowthanflame. 

           Atthemostremoteendofthecryptthereappearedanotherlessspacious. Itswallshadbeenlinedwithhumanremains,piledtothevaultoverhead,inthefashionofthegreatcatacombsofParis.