“Open the gate,” Westley said to Fezzik.
“I’m so hot,” Fezzik said, “can I please take this thing off first?” and after Westley’s nod, he pulled the flaming cloak away and left it on the ground, then unlocked the gate and pulled the door open enough for them to slip through.
“Lock it and keep the key, Fezzik,” Westley said. “It must be after 5:30 by now; half an hour left to stop the wedding.”
“What do we do after we win?” Fezzik said, working with the key, forcing the great lock to close. “Where should we meet? I’m the kind of fellow who needs instructions.”
Before Westley could answer, Inigo cried out and readied his sword. Count Rugen and four palace guards were rounding a corner and running toward them. The time was then 5:34.
The wedding itself did not end until 5:31, and Humperdinck had to use all of his persuasive abilities to get even that much accomplished. As the screaming from outside the gate burst all bounds of propriety, the Prince interrupted the Archdean with gentlest manner and said, “Holiness, my love is simply overpowering my ability to wait—please skip on down to the end of the service.”
The time was then 5:27.
“Humperdinck and Buttercup,” the Archdean said, “I am very old and my thoughts on marriage are few, but I feel I must give them to you on this most happy of days.” (The Archdean could hear absolutely nothing, and had been so afflicted since he was eighty-five or so. The only actual change that had come over him in the past years was that, for some reason, his impediment had gotten worse. “Mawidge,” he said. “Vewy old.” Unless you paid strict attention to his title and past accomplishments, it was very hard to take him seriously.)
“Mawidge—” the Archdean began.
“Again, Holiness, I interrupt in the name of love. Please hurry along as best you can to the end.”
“Mawidge is a dweam wiffin a dweam.”
Buttercup was paying little attention to the goings on. Westley must be racing down the corridors now. He always ran so beautifully. Even back on the farm, long before she knew her heart, it was good to watch him run.
Count Rugen was the only other person in the room, and the commotion at the gate had him on edge. Outside the door he had his four best swordsmen, so no one could enter the tiny chapel, but, still, there were a lot of people screaming where the Brute Squad should have been. The four guards were the only ones left inside the castle, for the Prince needed no spectators to the events that were soon to happen. If only the idiot cleric would speed things along. It was already 5:29.
“The dweam of wuv wapped wiffin the gweater dweam of everwasting west. Eternity is our fwiend, wemember that, and wuv wiw fowwow you fowever.”
It was 5:30 when the Prince stood up and approached the Archdean firmly. “Man and wife,” he shouted. “Man and wife. Say that!”
“I’m not there yet,” the Archdean answered.
“You just arrived,” the Prince replied. “Now!”
Buttercup could picture Westley rounding the final corner. There were four guards outside waiting. At ten seconds per guard, she began figuring, but then stopped, because numbers had always been her enemy. She looked down at her hands. Oh, I hope he still thinks I’m pretty, she thought; those nightmares took a lot out of me.
“Man and wife, you’re man and wife,” the Archdean said.
“Thank you, Holiness,” the Prince said, whirling toward Rugen. “Stop that commotion!” he commanded, and before his words were finished, the Count was running for the chapel door.
It was 5:31.
It took a full three minutes for the Count and the guards to reach the gate, and when they did, the Count could not believe it—he had seen Westley killed, and now there was Westley. And with a giant and a strangely scarred swarthy fellow. Something about the twin scars banked deep into his memory, but now was not the time for reminiscing. “Kill them,” he said to the fencers, “but leave the middle-sized one until I tell you” and the four guards drew their swords—