man who mocked his power. And anger at his own moment of weakness.
His followers might bow to fear. That was why they
were
followers. But he could not surrender to it. That was why they bowed to him.
Raging, the prince rushed into the purple room. But the figure had left. It had gone on to the next room.
In the green room the story was the same. And in the orange. The white. The violet. The figure kept its lead.
Prince Prospero was not worried. Thefigure was in the black room now. From that room there was no escape. Not from the prince. And not from the dagger in his hand.
The prince raised his dagger high. His eyes gleamed. The gleam of a hunter closing in on his prey. He entered the black room and saw he had his prey trapped.
The shrouded figure was at the far end of the room. Its back was toward the prince. Prince Prospero rushed toward it.
Then the figure turned.
The prince was four feet away.
He got no farther.
A sharp cry came from his mouth.
The dagger dropped from his hand. It fell on the black carpet.
Then the prince fell. Fell to lie beside his dagger.
His body lay facedown on the black carpet. It lay there still as a corpse. Bathed in the red light.
His followers saw all this through the open doorway. Their love and loyalty overcame fear. They poured into the room, ready to tear the motionless shrouded figure apart.
But all they found was an empty shroud that had crumpled to the floor. Beside it lay the chalk-white mask. Right in front of the towering black clock. The clock that had now stopped.
Then they turned the prince over and saw his face bathed in the blood-red light. But it was no trick of light they saw. It was blood as red as the light.
Now they knew who had come to their party.
Now they knew who had come uninvited, like a thief in the night.
Now they knew who was among them, touching them all.
One by one they fell to the floor. Writhing. Howling in pain. In the black room. The violet. The white. The orange. The green. The purple. The blue. And in every room their blood stained the carpets.
One by one the flames outside the windows went out. In the black room. The violet. The white. The orange. The green. The purple. The blue.
Until darkness ruled the castle.
Darkness—and the Red Death.
H ow I hated Fortunato! For more reasons than I can tell.
He had tricked me out of money. Forced me to sell land. Stolen the girl I loved. Laughed in my face. Insulted me. And far worse, insulted my noble family. Imagine a pig like him insulting the noble Montresors!
That was the last straw. That I could never forgive.
How I longed to do the simple thing. Plunge a dagger into him or run him through with my sword.
But “the simple thing” would not do. The law would take my life in return. Fortunato had to pay for all he had done. But pay with
his
life alone, not
mine
.
One thing more. It was not enough to make Fortunato pay. He had to
know
he was paying. He could not die still looking down his nose at me. Still thinking he was better than a Montresor. No! Never!
Settling the score with Fortunato would not be easy. I needed time. Time to think. To plan. To find the right moment. The right place. The right way.
At last I made my plans. I was careful not to put him on guard. I smiled when he teased me about losing my fortune andlove. I laughed at his jokes about my family while I waited for the right time to come.
Fortunato and I lived in a town in the north of Italy. Lent—the forty days before Easter—is a time of fasting and prayer. A dull, dreary time. Is it any wonder that before Lent begins, the people here have a festival? Some call it Mardi Gras. Others, Carnival.
It is a week of madness and gaiety. People dress up in costumes. Have parades. Give parties. Dance. Sing. And drink.
Above all, they drink. Our part of Italy is fond of wine and boasts of drinking the very best.
In our town no one liked wine more than Fortunato or claimed to know wine so well. Indeed I must admit that
His followers might bow to fear. That was why they
were
followers. But he could not surrender to it. That was why they bowed to him.
Raging, the prince rushed into the purple room. But the figure had left. It had gone on to the next room.
In the green room the story was the same. And in the orange. The white. The violet. The figure kept its lead.
Prince Prospero was not worried. Thefigure was in the black room now. From that room there was no escape. Not from the prince. And not from the dagger in his hand.
The prince raised his dagger high. His eyes gleamed. The gleam of a hunter closing in on his prey. He entered the black room and saw he had his prey trapped.
The shrouded figure was at the far end of the room. Its back was toward the prince. Prince Prospero rushed toward it.
Then the figure turned.
The prince was four feet away.
He got no farther.
A sharp cry came from his mouth.
The dagger dropped from his hand. It fell on the black carpet.
Then the prince fell. Fell to lie beside his dagger.
His body lay facedown on the black carpet. It lay there still as a corpse. Bathed in the red light.
His followers saw all this through the open doorway. Their love and loyalty overcame fear. They poured into the room, ready to tear the motionless shrouded figure apart.
But all they found was an empty shroud that had crumpled to the floor. Beside it lay the chalk-white mask. Right in front of the towering black clock. The clock that had now stopped.
Then they turned the prince over and saw his face bathed in the blood-red light. But it was no trick of light they saw. It was blood as red as the light.
Now they knew who had come to their party.
Now they knew who had come uninvited, like a thief in the night.
Now they knew who was among them, touching them all.
One by one they fell to the floor. Writhing. Howling in pain. In the black room. The violet. The white. The orange. The green. The purple. The blue. And in every room their blood stained the carpets.
One by one the flames outside the windows went out. In the black room. The violet. The white. The orange. The green. The purple. The blue.
Until darkness ruled the castle.
Darkness—and the Red Death.
H ow I hated Fortunato! For more reasons than I can tell.
He had tricked me out of money. Forced me to sell land. Stolen the girl I loved. Laughed in my face. Insulted me. And far worse, insulted my noble family. Imagine a pig like him insulting the noble Montresors!
That was the last straw. That I could never forgive.
How I longed to do the simple thing. Plunge a dagger into him or run him through with my sword.
But “the simple thing” would not do. The law would take my life in return. Fortunato had to pay for all he had done. But pay with
his
life alone, not
mine
.
One thing more. It was not enough to make Fortunato pay. He had to
know
he was paying. He could not die still looking down his nose at me. Still thinking he was better than a Montresor. No! Never!
Settling the score with Fortunato would not be easy. I needed time. Time to think. To plan. To find the right moment. The right place. The right way.
At last I made my plans. I was careful not to put him on guard. I smiled when he teased me about losing my fortune andlove. I laughed at his jokes about my family while I waited for the right time to come.
Fortunato and I lived in a town in the north of Italy. Lent—the forty days before Easter—is a time of fasting and prayer. A dull, dreary time. Is it any wonder that before Lent begins, the people here have a festival? Some call it Mardi Gras. Others, Carnival.
It is a week of madness and gaiety. People dress up in costumes. Have parades. Give parties. Dance. Sing. And drink.
Above all, they drink. Our part of Italy is fond of wine and boasts of drinking the very best.
In our town no one liked wine more than Fortunato or claimed to know wine so well. Indeed I must admit that
Similar Books
