The Princess Bride: Chapter 5

She crossed and recrossed the Great Square and always, ahead of her, the people swept apart to let her pass. Buttercup continued, moving slowly and smiling, alone, like some land messiah.

More than any of them, the Sicilian was afraid of heights. All of his nightmares, and they were never far from him when he slept, dealt with falling. So this terrifying ascension was most difficult for him, perched as he was on the neck of the giant.

“Inconceivable!” the Sicilian cried.
The Spaniard whirled on him. “Stop saying that word. It was inconceivable that anyone could follow us, but when we looked behind, there was the man in black. It was inconceivable that anyone could sail as fast as we could sail, and yet he gained on us. Now this too is inconceivable, but look—look—” and the Spaniard pointed down through the night. “See how he rises.”

The Sicilian advanced on the Spaniard now, his wild eyes glittering at the insubordination.

Without the brains of the Sicilian, he, Inigo, would never be able to command jobs of this caliber.

So to make the time more pleasant, he pulled from the scabbard his great, his only, love: The six-fingered sword.

Domingo Montoya was funny-looking and crotchety and impatient and absent-minded and never smiled.

Yeste was fat and jovial and one of the richest and most honored men in the city.

“Although I die in your hut, and although it is your own stubborn fault that causes my ceasing, in other words, even though you are killing me, don’t think twice about it. I love you as I always have and God forbid your conscience should give you any trouble.”

“You are a sword maker,” came the booming voice. “Of distinction. I have heard that this is true.”

You quibbled. You haggled. Art was involved and you saw only money. Beauty was here for the taking and you saw only your fat purse.

“True. But you care for me. You would not have been ruthless. You would have said, ‘Excellent parry, Inigo, now that’s enough for one day; let’s have supper.’”

Well, the truth is you are an impetuous boy driven by madness and you are not now and you will never be a master.

It was a lovely plan really. Simple, direct. No frills. In the beginning, Inigo had all kinds of wild vengeance notions, but gradually, simplicity had seemed the better way.

Because the Sicilian had a dream: with his guile plus the Turk’s strength plus the Spaniard’s sword, they might become the most effective criminal organization in the civilized world.

The Turk’s strength grew more prodigious with the months.

“But I don’t think you would accept my help, since I’m only waiting up here so that I can kill you.”
“That does put a damper on our relationship,” the man in black said then.

The important thing was to outthink the enemy, find his weakness, let him have his moment of exultation.

He could thwart thirty ripostes, but not the thirty-first, and now his shoulder bled.

Neither man conceded anything. The sound of metal clashing metal rose.

But he was blocked. By the man in black. He was shackled. By the man in black. He was baffled, thwarted, muzzled.

For a moment, Fezzik felt almost wistful. This was clearly a good fellow, even if he had killed Inigo.

He let the man in black feint and dodge and try a hold here, a hold there.

“I have no doubt you could kill me. Any man who can get by Inigo and Fezzik would have no trouble disposing of me. However, has it occurred to you that if you did that, then neither of us would get what we want—you having lost your ransom item, me my life.”
“We are at an impasse then,” said the man in black.

There are no words to contain all my wisdom. I am so cunning, crafty and clever, so filled with deceit, guile and chicanery, such a knave, so shrewd, cagey as well as calculating, as diabolical as I am vulpine, as tricky as I am untrustworthy...

I am so cunning, crafty and clever, so filled with deceit, guile and chicanery, such a knave, so shrewd, cagey as well as calculating, as diabolical as I am vulpine, as tricky as I am untrustworthy...

...the world is several million years old and several billion people have at one time or another trod upon it, but I, Vizzini the Sicilian, am, speaking with pure candor and modesty, the slickest, sleekest, sliest and wiliest fellow who has yet come down the pike.

“You fell victim to one of the classic blunders. The most famous is ‘Never get involved in a land war in Asia,’ but only slightly less well known is this: ‘Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line.’”

“That is the penalty for lying, Highness. Where I come from, when a woman lies, she is reprimanded.”

For a moment, the man in black teetered at the ravine edge. His arms spun like windmills fighting for balance. They swung and gripped the air and then he began his slide.

This was just like any other hunt. He made himself think away the quarry. It did not matter if you were after an antelope or a bride-to-be; the procedures held.

“There was a mighty duel,” Prince Humperdinck said, directing his comment toward Count Rugen, who had finally caught up, together with a contingent of a hundred mounted men-at-arms.

Men stumbled, horses fell, even the Count tripped from time to time. Prince Humperdinck never even broke stride. He ran steadily, mechanically, his barrel legs pumping like a metronome.

At this point in the story, my wife wants it known that she feels violently cheated, not being allowed the scene of reconciliation on the ravine floor between the lovers.

This is me, and I'm not trying to be confusing, but the above paragraph that I'm cutting into now is verbatim Morgenstern; he was continually referring to his wife in the unabridged book, saying that she loved the next section or she thought that, all in all, the book was extraordinarily brilliant.

Westley let go of the vine without a qualm, because he had come too far to fail now; failure was not even a problem to be considered.

“I fail to see how that is possible, since he has been marauding for twenty years and you only left me three years ago.”

A hundred mounted horsemen, armored and armed. In front of them the Count. And out alone in front of all, the four whites with the Prince astride the leader.

“Must I swear again?”
“No need,” Buttercup said, because she knew, as did everyone, that the Prince was more forthright than any Florinese.

He had risked his world, and now it was walking away from him, hand in hand with a ruffian prince.