Markito spent most of that day scrambling around the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. I hobbled back to the House to arrange for the Historian's final disposition. No one but the two of us were to know that this dead stranger was known to me.

We buried him beside the old tower on the bluff above the lake. Considering what followed, it might have been better to drop the body over the cliff behind the House, where his pursuers would have found it and perhaps given up the chase. But I could not have conceived of such a thing at the time, nor would I have been able to explain my action, should I somehow be called to account for it.

Unhappily, the satchel had burst open in falling, and much of its contents almost certainly went into the lake. But Markito is a patient and thorough man, and what he brought back I am sure was all there was to be found:

The Historian's notebook seemed to be intact, although its primitive binding was nearly gone; some leaves may have come loose from the beginning or the end — having read the whole notebook through, however, I still cannot say for certain.

There was an ancient piece of treated hide that may have been used to wrap other items, but there was nothing in or upon it when it was found. In the trees and bushes Markito said there were scraps of paper or parchment so very old that they disintegrated upon being touched. One or two of these he managed to retrieve, but the writing on them was very obscure, and after a few days in the open air they crumbled to dust.

Most curious were the dozen or so objects, each about the size and shape of half a flatbread, that were made of metal and some unidentifiable material. I had never seen such a thing at the time, but I have since.