This discussion board is worth 12 points. Refer to the discussion board rubric. Please remember the Thursday/Sunday rule: initial posts due Thursday nights; responses due Sunday nights.
Your initial post is due by Thursday night, February 3, 11:59 p.m. CST. Two responses to classmates’ initial posts are due by Sunday night, February 6, 11:59 p.m. CST.
For your initial post, thoroughly answer the following questions about “Cask of Amontillado” and “The Man in the Well”:
1. Although the man in the well appears to be in the well accidentally and Poe’s Fortunato was confined in the wall on purpose, presumably the man in the well and Fortunato both die. Montresor, obviously, murdered Fortunato in “cold blood.” How might the children be seen as equally culpable as Montresor?
2. In both stories, the victims plead with their nemeses. Are they using the right strategies? Could the man in the well and/or Fortunato have said anything differently in order to change their fates? If you were these characters, what would your argument be to get out of the predicament?
Name: Class:
“Abandoned Well” by Bertalan Szürös is licensed under CC BY-NC-
ND
2
.0
By Ira Sher
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9
9
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Ira Sher is a contemporary author who writes short fiction. In this chilling short story, a group of children
discovers a man trapped in a well.
I was nine when I discovered the man in the well
in an abandoned farm-lot near my home. I was
with a group of friends, playing hide and go seek
or something when I found the well, and then I
heard the voice of the man in the well calling out
for help.
I think it’s important that we decided not to help
him. Everyone, like myself, was probably on the
verge of fetching a rope, or asking where we
could find a ladder, but then we looked around at
each other and it was decided. I don’t remember
if we told ourselves a reason why we couldn’t
help him, but we had decided then. Because of
this, I never went very close to the lip of the well,
or I only came up on my hands and knees, so that
he couldn’t see me; and just as we wouldn’t allow
him to see us, I know that none of us ever saw
the man in the well — the well was too dark for
that, too deep, even when the sun was high up,
angling light down the stone sides like golden
hair.
I remember that we were still full of games and
laughter when we called down to him. He had
heard us shouting while we were playing, and he
had been hollering for us to come; he was so
relieved at that moment.
“God, get me out. I’ve been here for days.” He must have known we were children, because he
immediately instructed us to “go get a ladder, get help.”
At first afraid to disobey the voice from the man in the well, we turned around and actually began to
walk toward the nearest house, which was Arthur’s. But along the way we slowed down, and then we
stopped, and after waiting what seemed like a good while, we quietly came back to the well.
We stood or lay around the lip, listening for maybe half an hour, and then Arthur, after some
hesitation, called down, “What’s your name?” This, after all, seemed like the most natural question.
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The man answered back immediately, “Do you have the ladder?”
We all looked at Arthur, and he called back down, “No, we couldn’t find one.”
Now that we had established some sort of a dialogue, everyone had questions he or she wanted to ask
the man in the well, but the man wouldn’t stop speaking:
“Go tell your parents there’s someone in this well. If they have a rope or a ladder…” he trailed off. His
voice was raw and sometimes he would cough. “Just tell your parents.”
We were quiet, but this time no one stood up or moved. Someone, I think little Jason, called down,
“Hello. Is it dark?” and then, after a moment, “Can you see the sky?”
He didn’t answer but instead told us to go again.
When we were quiet for a bit, he called to see if we had gone.
After a pause, Wendy crawled right to the edge so that her hair lifted slightly in the updraft.1 “Is there
any water down there?”
“Have they gone for help?” he asked.
She looked around at us, and then she called down, “Yes, they’re all gone now. Isn’t there any water
down there?” I don’t think anyone smiled at how easy it was to deceive him — this was too important.
“Isn’t there?” she said again.
“No,” he said. “It’s very dry.” He cleared his throat. “Do you think it will rain?”
She stood up and took in the whole sky with her blue eyes, making sure. “No, I don’t think so.” We
heard him coughing in the well, and we waited for a while, thinking about him waiting in the well.
Resting on the grass and cement by the well, I tried to picture him. I tried to imagine the gesture of his
hand reaching to cover his mouth, each time he coughed. Or perhaps he was too tired to make that
gesture, each time. After an hour, he began calling again, but for some reason we didn’t want to
answer. We got up and began running, filling up with panic as we moved, until we were racing across
the ruts of the old field. I kept turning, stumbling as I looked behind. Perhaps he had heard us getting
up and running away from the well. Only Wendy stayed by the well for a while, watching us run as his
calling grew louder and wilder, until finally she ran, too, and then we were all far away.
***
The next morning we came back, most of us carrying bread or fruit or something to eat in our pockets.
Arthur brought a canvas bag from his house and a plastic jug of water.
When we got to the well we stood around quietly for a moment listening for him. “Maybe he’s asleep,”
Wendy said.
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1. a wind moving upward
2
We sat down around the mouth of the well on the old concrete slab, warming in the sun and coursing
with ants and tiny insects. Aaron called down then, when everyone was comfortable, and the man
answered right away, as if he had been listening to us the whole time.
“Did your parents get help?”
Arthur kneeled at the edge of the well and called “Watch out,” and then he let the bag fall after holding
it out for a moment, maybe for the man to see. It hit the ground more quickly than I had expected;
that, combined with a feeling that he could hear everything we said, made him suddenly closer, as if he
might be able to see us. I wanted to be very quiet, so that if he heard or saw anyone, he would not
notice me. The man in the well started coughing, and Arthur volunteered, “There’s some water in the
bag. We all brought something.”
We could hear him moving around down there. After a few minutes, he asked us, “When are they
coming? What did your parents say?”
We all looked at each other, aware that he couldn’t address anyone in particular. He must have
understood this, because he called out in his thin, groping voice, “What are your names?”
No one answered until Aaron, who was the oldest, said, “My father said he’s coming, with the police.
And he knows what to do.” We admired Aaron very much for coming up with this, on the spot.
“Are they on their way?” the man in the well asked. We could hear that he was eating.
“My father said don’t worry, because he’s coming with the police.”
Little Jason came up next to Aaron, and asked, “What’s your name?” because we still didn’t know what
to call him. When we talked among our selves, he had simply become “the man.”
He didn’t answer, so Jason asked him how old he was, and then Grace came up too and asked him
something, I don’t remember. We all asked such stupid questions, and he wouldn’t answer anyone.
Finally, we all stopped talking, and we lay down on the cement.
It was a hot day, so after a while, Grace got up, and then Little Jason and another young boy, Robert I
think, and went to town to sit in the cool movie theater. That was what we did most afternoons back
then. After an hour everyone had left except Wendy and myself, and I was beginning to think I would
go, too.
He called up to us all of a sudden. “Are they coming now?”
“Yes,” Wendy said, looking at me, and I nodded my head. She sounded certain: “I think they’re almost
here. Aaron said his dad is almost here.”
As soon as she said it she was sorry, because she’d broken one of the rules. I could see it on her face,
eyes filling with space as she moved back from the well. Now he had one of our names. She said
“They’re going to come” to cover up the mistake, but there it was, and there was nothing to do about it.
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The man in the well didn’t say anything for a few minutes. Then he surprised us again by asking, “Is it
going to rain?”
Wendy stood up and turned around like she had done the other day, but the sky was clear. “No,” she
said.
Then he asked again, “They’re coming, you said. Aaron’s dad,” and he shouted, “Right?” so that we
jumped, and stood up, and began running away, just as we had the day before. We could hear him
shouting for a while, and we were afraid someone might hear. I thought that toward the end maybe he
had said he was sorry. But I never asked Wendy what she thought he’d said.
***
Everyone was there again on the following morning. It was all I could think about during supper the
night before, and then the anticipation in the morning over breakfast. My mother was very upset with
something at the time. I could hear her weeping at night in her room downstairs, and the stubborn
murmur of my father. There was a feeling to those days, months actually, that I can’t describe without
resorting2 to the man in the well, as if through a great whispering, like a gathering of clouds, or the
long sound, the turbulent wreck of the ocean.
At the well we put together the things to eat we had smuggled out, but we hadn’t even gotten them all
in the bag when the voice of the man in the well soared out sharply, “They’re on their way, now?”
We stood very still, so that he couldn’t hear us, but I knew what was coming and I couldn’t do anything
to soften or blur the words of the voice.
“Aaron,” he pronounced, and I had imagined him practicing that voice all night long, and holding it in
his mouth so that he wouldn’t let it slip away in his sleep. Aaron lost all the color in his face, and he
looked at us with suspicion, as if we had somehow taken on a part of the man in the well. I didn’t even
glance at Wendy. We were both too embarrassed — neither of us said anything; we were all quiet then.
Arthur finished assembling the bag, and we could see his hands shaking as he dropped it into the well.
We heard the man in the well moving around.
After ten minutes or so, Grace called down to him, “What’s your name?” but someone pulled her back
from the well, and we became silent again. Today the question humiliated3 us with its simplicity.
There was no sound for a while from the well, except for the cloth noises and the scraping the man in
the well made as he moved around. Then he called out, in a pleasant voice, “Aaron, what do you think
my name is?”
Aaron, who had been very still this whole time, looked around at all of us again. We knew he was
afraid; his fingers were pulling with a separate life at the collar of his shirt, and maybe because she felt
badly for him, Wendy answered instead: “Is your name Charles?” It sounded inane,
4
but the man in the
well answered.
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2. Resort (verb): to do or use something because one has no other choice
3. Humiliate (verb): to make someone feel ashamed or foolish
4. Inane (adjective): silly and pointless
4
“No,” the man said.
She thought for a moment. “Edgar.”
“No, no.”
Little Jason called out, “David?”
“No,” the man in the well said.
Then Aaron, who had been absolutely quiet, said “Arthur” in a small, clear voice, and we all started. I
could see Arthur was furious, but Aaron was older and bigger than he was, and nothing could be said
or done without giving himself, his name, away; we knew the man in the well was listening for the
changes in our breath, anything. Aaron didn’t look at Arthur, or anyone, and then he began giving all of
our names, one at a time. We all watched him, trembling, our faces the faces I had seen pasted on the
spectators in the freak tent when the circus had come to town. We were watching such a deformity
take place before our eyes; and I remember the spasm of anger when he said my name, and felt the
man in the well soak it up — because the man in the well understood. The man in the well didn’t say
anything, now.
When Aaron was done, we all waited for the man in the well to speak up. I stood on one leg, then the
other, and eventually I sat down. We had to wait for an hour, and today no one wanted to leave to lie in
the shade or hide in the velvet movie seats.
At last, the man in the well said, “All right, then. Arthur. What do you think I look like?” We heard him
cough a couple of times, and then a sound like the smacking of lips. Arthur, who was sitting on the
ground with his chin propped on his fists, didn’t say anything. How could he — I knew I couldn’t
answer, myself, if the man in the well called me by name. He called a few of us, and I watched the
shudder5 move from face to face.
Then he was quiet for a while. It was afternoon now, and the light was changing, withdrawing from the
well. It was as if the well was filling up with earth. The man in the well moved around a bit, and then he
called Jason. He asked, “How old do you think I am, Jason?” He didn’t seem to care that no one would
answer, or he seemed to expect that no one would. He said, “Wendy. Are they coming now? Is Aaron’s
dad coming now?” He walked around a bit, we heard him rummage6 in the bag of food, and he said,
“All right. What’s my name?” He used everyone’s name; he asked every one. When he said my name, I
felt the water clouding my eyes, and I wanted to throw stones, dirt down the well to crush out his voice.
But we couldn’t do anything, none of us did because then he would know.
In the evening we could tell he was getting tired. He wasn’t saying much, and seemed to have lost
interest in us. Before we left that day, as we were rising quietly and looking at the dark shadows of the
trees we had to move through to reach our homes, he said, “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” He coughed.
“Didn’t you want to tell anyone?” Perhaps he heard the hesitation in our breaths, but he wasn’t going to
help us now. It was almost night then, and we were spared the detail of having to see and read each
other’s faces.
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5. Shudder (noun): a sudden shiver caused by fear
6. Rummage (verb): to search by moving, turning, or looking through the contents of a container
5
“The Man in the Well” by Ira Sher. Copyright © 1995 by Ira Sher. Reprinted with permission, all rights reserved.
That night it rained, and I listened to the rain on the roof and my mother sobbing, downstairs, until I
fell asleep. After that we didn’t play by the well anymore; even when we were much older, we didn’t go
back. I will never go back.
6
Text-Dependent Questions
Directions: For the following questions, choose the best answer or respond in complete sentences.
1. Which of the following best describes a main theme of the text?
A. Children help others only when they feel fear or embarrassment.
B. People can act in cruel ways when they hold power over others.
C. Anyone can be a hero, but it is a choice people have to make.
D. Distrust of strangers has caused modern society to become less caring.
2. How does the narrator’s point of view influence how the events are described in the
passage?
A. The narrator is ashamed of what happened and portrays the others as more
deserving of blame.
B. The narrator is no longer ashamed of what happened and recounts the events
with confidence.
C. The narrator feels shame about what happened but still tries to tell the story in
a truthful way.
D. The narrator is an adult now and does not remember all of the details of what
happened years ago.
3. PART A: How do the children respond to the man’s initial cry for help?
A. Some of the children want to play tricks on the man, and the others go along
with it.
B. They make their decision without talking, but why they choose not to help the
man is left unclear.
C. They are unable to come to an agreement about how to help, so they decide not
to help at all.
D. They want to help him, but so much time passes that they fear he will punish
them if he ever gets out.
4. PART B: Which of the following quotes best supports the answer to Part A?
A. “Everyone, like myself, was probably on the verge of fetching a rope, or asking
where we could find a ladder, but then we looked around at each other and it
was decided.” (Paragraph 2)
B. “I remember that we were still full of games and laughter when we called down
to him. He heard us shouting while we were playing” (Paragraph 3)
C. “At first afraid to disobey the voice from the man in the well, we turned around
and actually began to walk toward the nearest house, which was Arthur’s. But
along the way we slowed down” (Paragraph 5)
D. “As we were rising quietly and looking at the dark shadows of the trees we had
to move through to reach our homes, he said, ‘Why didn’t you tell anyone?’ He
coughed. ‘Didn’t you want to tell anyone?’” (Paragraph 56)
7
5. Which statement best describes the relationship between the children and the man in the
well at the end of the story?
A. The children hoped that the man would be honest with them.
B. The children were embarrassed that they had treated the man poorly.
C. The children were sad they never got to know the man before he died.
D. The children became annoyed with the man when he started to question their
actions.
6. How do the children’s interactions with the man in the well reveal the theme of the text?
Use at least two pieces of evidence in your response.
8
Discussion Questions
Directions: Brainstorm your answers to the following questions in the space provided. Be prepared to
share your original ideas in a class discussion.
1. Are the children’s actions in this story cruel? Based on your own experiences, do you believe
children can often be cruel to others? Explain your answer.
2. Why do you think Aaron is upset that the man in the well knows his name? How do you
think you would have reacted if you were one of the children in the story and the man
found out your name? Explain your answer.
3. Consider the actions and motivations of the children in the story. Why do people do bad
things? Cite evidence from this text, your own experience, and other literature, art, or
history in your answer.
4. In the context of this story, how does power corrupt? How does the balance of power
between the children and the man change throughout the story?
9
THE CASK
OF
AMONTILLADO
BY
EDGAR ALLAN POE
77^̂WWYYSS`̀f�f�77TTaaaa]]ee��
http://www.ibiblio.org/ebooks/
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Short Story: “ The Cask of Amontill ado”
Author: Edgar All an Poe, 1809–49
First publi shed: 1846
The original short story is in the public domain in the
United States and in most, if not all , other countries as well .
Readers outside the United States should check their own
countries’ copyright laws to be certain they can legally
download this e-story. The Onli ne Books Page has an FAQ
which gives a summary of copyright durations for many
other countries, as well as li nks to more off icial sources.
This PDF ebook was
created by José Menéndez.
http://onlinebooks.library.upenn.edu/okbooks.html
http://onlinebooks.library.upenn.edu/
3
THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best
could; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge.
You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not
suppose, however, that I gave utterance to a threat. At length
I would be avenged; this was a point definiti vely settled—
but the very definiti veness with which it was resolved,
precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but punish
with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution
overtakes its redresser. It is equally unredressed when the
avenger fail s to make himself felt as such to him who has
done the wrong.
It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had
I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will . I continued,
as was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive
that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation.
He had a weak point—this Fortunato—although in
other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared.
He prided himself on his connoisseurship in wine. Few
Itali ans have the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their
enthusiasm is adopted to suit the time and opportunity—to
practise imposture upon the Briti sh and Austrian
millionaires. In painting and gemmary, Fortunato, li ke his
countrymen, was a quack—but in the matter of old wines he
was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him
materially: I was skil ful in the Itali an vintages myself, and
bought largely whenever I could.
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme
madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend.
He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been
drinking much. The man wore motley. He had on a tight-
fitti ng parti-striped dress, and his head was surmounted by
THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 4
the conical cap and bell s. I was so pleased to see him, that I
thought I should never have done wringing his hand.
I said to him: “ My dear Fortunato, you are luckily met.
How remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have
received a pipe of what passes for Amontill ado, and I have
my doubts.”
“ How?” said he. “ Amontill ado? A pipe? Impossible!
And in the middle of the carnival!”
“ I have my doubts,” I repli ed; “and I was sil ly enough
to pay the full Amontil lado price without consulti ng you in
the matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of
losing a bargain.”
“ Amontill ado!”
“ I have my doubts.”
“ Amontill ado!”
“ And I must satisfy them.”
“ Amontill ado!”
“ As you are engaged, I am on my way to Luchesi. If
any one has a criti cal turn, it i s he. He will t ell me——”
“ Luchesi cannot tell Amontill ado from Sherry.”
“ And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match
for your own.”
“ Come, let us go.”
“ Whither?”
“ To your vaults.”
“ My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good
nature. I perceive you have an engagement. Luchesi——”
“ I have no engagement;—come.”
“ My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe
cold with which I perceive you are affli cted. The vaults are
insuff erably damp. They are encrusted with nitre.”
“ Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing.
Amontill ado! You have been imposed upon. And as for
Luchesi, he cannot distinguish Sherry from Amontill ado.”
EDGAR ALLAN POE 5
Thus speaking, Fortunato possessed himself of my arm.
Putting on a mask of black sil k, and drawing a roquelaire
closely about my person, I suff ered him to hurry me to my
palazzo.
There were no attendants at home; they had absconded
to make merry in honor of the time. I had told them that I
should not return until the morning, and had given them
expli cit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were
suff icient, I well knew, to insure their immediate
disappearance, one and all , as soon as my back was turned.
I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving
one to Fortunato, bowed him through several suites of rooms
to the archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long
and winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he
foll owed. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and
stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the
Montresors.
The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon
his cap ji ngled as he strode.
“ The pipe?” said he.
“ It is farther on,” said I; “ but observe the white web-
work which gleams from these cavern wall s.”
He turned toward me, and looked into my eyes with two
fil my orbs that distill ed the rheum of intoxication.
“ Nitre?” he asked, at length.
“ Nitre,” I repli ed. “ How long have you had that
cough?”
“ Ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—
ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!”
My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many
minutes.
“ It is nothing,” he said, at last.
“ Come,” I said, with decision, “ we will go back; your
health is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved;
THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 6
you are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed.
For me it i s no matter. We will go back; you will be ill , and I
cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Luchesi——”
“ Enough,” he said; “ the cough is a mere nothing; it will
not kill m e. I shall not die of a cough.”
“ True—true,” I repli ed; “and, indeed, I had no intention
of alarming you unnecessarily; but you should use all proper
caution. A draught of this Medoc will defend us from the
damps.”
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew
from a long row of its fell ows that lay upon the mould.
“ Drink,” I said, presenting him the wine.
He raised it to his li ps with a leer. He paused and
nodded to me famili arly, whil e his bell s ji ngled.
“ I drink,” he said, “ to the buried that repose around us.”
“ And I to your long li fe.”
He again took my arm, and we proceeded.
“ These vaults,” he said, “ are extensive.”
“ The Montresors,” I repli ed, “ were a great and
numerous family.”
“ I forget your arms.”
“ A huge human foot d’ or, in a field azure; the foot
crushes a serpent rampant whose fangs are imbedded in the
heel.”
“ And the motto?”
“ Nemo me impune lacessit.”
“ Good!” he said.
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bell s ji ngled. My
own fancy grew warm with the Medoc. We had passed
through wall s of pil ed bones, with casks and puncheons
intermingli ng, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I
paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Fortunato by
an arm above the elbow.
EDGAR ALLAN POE 7
“ The nitre!” I said; “ see, it i ncreases. It hangs li ke moss
upon the vaults. We are below the river’ s bed. The drops of
moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we wil l go back ere
it i s too late. Your cough——”
“ It is nothing,” he said; “ let us go on. But first, another
draught of the Medoc.”
I broke and reached him a flagon of De Grâve. He
emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce li ght. He
laughed and threw the bottle upward with a gesticulation I
did not understand.
I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the
movement—a grotesque one.
“ You do not comprehend?” he said.
“ Not I,” I repli ed.
“ Then you are not of the brotherhood.”
“ How?”
“ You are not of the masons.”
“ Yes, yes,” I said; “ yes, yes.”
“ You? Impossible! A mason?”
“ A mason,” I repli ed.
“ A sign,” he said.
“ It is this,” I answered, producing a trowel from beneath
the folds of my roquelaire.
“ You jest,” he exclaimed, recoili ng a few paces. “ But
let us proceed to the Amontill ado.”
“ Be it so,” I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak,
and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily.
We continued our route in search of the Amontill ado. We
passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed on,
and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in which the
foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather to glow than
flame.
At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared
another less spacious. Its wall s had been li ned with human
THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 8
remains, pil ed to the vault overhead, in the fashion of the
great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior crypt
were stil l ornamented in this manner. From the fourth the
bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously upon
the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size. Within
the wall t hus exposed by the displacing of the bones, we
perceived a still i nterior recess, in depth about four feet, in
width three, in height six or seven. It seemed to have been
constructed for no especial use within itself, but formed
merely the interval between two of the colossal supports of
the roof of the catacombs, and was backed by one of their
circumscribing wall s of soli d granite.
It was in vain that Fortunato, upli fting his dull t orch,
endeavored to pry into the depth of the recess. Its termination
the feeble light did not enable us to see.
“ Proceed,” I said; “ herein is the Amontill ado. As for
Luchesi——”
“ He is an ignoramus,” interrupted my friend, as he
stepped unsteadily forward, whil e I foll owed immediately at
his heels. In an instant he had reached the extremity of the
niche, and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood
stupidly bewil dered. A moment more and I had fettered him
to the granite. In its 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 li nks about his waist, it was but the work of a
few seconds to secure it. He was too much astounded to
resist. Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.
“ Pass your hand,” I said, “ over the wall; you cannot
help feeli ng the nitre. Indeed it i s very damp. Once more let
me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave
you. But I must first render you all t he littl e attentions in my
power.”
EDGAR ALLAN POE 9
“ The Amontill ado!” ejaculated my friend, not yet
recovered from his astonishment.
“ True,” I repli ed; “ the Amontill ado.”
As I said these words I busied myself among the pil e of
bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside, I
soon uncovered a quantity of buil ding stone and mortar.
With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began
vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when I
discovered that the intoxication of Fortunato had in a great
measure worn off . The earli est indication I had of this was a
low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not the
cry of a drunken man. There was then a long and obstinate
sil ence. I laid the second tier, and the third, and the fourth;
and then I heard the furious vibrations of the chain. The
noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that I might
hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased my labors
and sat down upon the bones. When at last the clanking
subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished without
interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh tier. The wall
was now nearly upon a level with my breast. I again paused,
and holding the flambeaux over the mason-work, threw a
few feeble rays upon the figure within.
A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting
suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to
thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated—I
trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it
about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I
placed my hand upon the soli d fabric of the catacombs, and
felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall . I repli ed to the yell s of
him who clamored. I re-echoed—I aided—I surpassed them
in volume and in strength. I did this, and the clamorer grew
still .
THE CASK OF AMONTILLADO 10
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a
close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth
tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh;
there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered
in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its
destined positi on. But now there came from out the niche a
low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was
succeeded by a sad voice, which I had diff iculty in
recognizing as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said—
“ Ha! ha! ha!—he! he!—a very good joke indeed—an
excell ent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the
palazzo—he! he! he!—over our wine—he! he! he!”
“ The Amontill ado!” I said.
“ He! he! he!—he! he! he!—yes, the Amontill ado. But is
it not getting late? Will not they be awaiti ng us at the
palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone.”
“ Yes,” I said, “ let us be gone.”
“ For the love of God, Montresor!”
“ Yes,” I said, “ for the love of God!”
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I
grew impatient. I call ed aloud:
“ Fortunato!”
No answer. I call ed again:
“ Fortunato!”
No answer still . I thrust a torch through the remaining
aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in reply only
a ji ngli ng of the bell s. My heart grew sick—on account of
the dampness of the catacombs. I hastened to make an end of
my labor. I forced the last stone into its position; I plastered
it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart
of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed
them. In pace requiescat!
