Little Markito found him, sitting inside the old guard tower, his back propped against the doorframe so that he could see the cliff opposite. He told me the man was dead, but when we entered the enclosure my leg buckled and I fell against him, nearly knocking over the stool upon which he had been propped. Markito grabbed for him, but the man's hand went out to steady himself. I had not yet seen his face. When I did I nearly keeled over myself.

It was the Historian, my old darling.

Let me just say, before I go on with my story, that I have entrusted everything to Markito, a tiny man deformed like myself: somewhat more afflicted in that respect, but also more cheerful. He has joy, which I have lost — if I ever possessed it, I cannot remember. Such people are blessed, and a blessing to others. But Markito is also cunning enough to know that it is best not to let many know that he is smart enough to know that. Markito will be able to find a way to preserve this remarkable tale; I am too old and tired, and also too much known. Already some suspect people have come sniffing around on account of rumors in the town that there is some treasure buried in these cliffs. This is true, of course, although the treasure is not what these covetous people think. Markito knows everything I can tell him, and what I cannot accomplish he will finish, at least as far as recording this extraordinary history is concerned.

Markito's report was almost right: my friend was near death. He would not let me move him back to the house, even though it would soon get very cold, and we could smell snow in the air. I saw that he believed he would die on the way, and I believe he was right. He also seemed to want to spend his last moments gazing upon that cliff face. Eventually, I found out why.