“What the guy dickens be a concatrenation, Geoffrey?” interrogated Giles.
“Methinks it is Latin for a ditch,” responded Geoffrey.
This interpretation commending itself to the general judgment of the retainers, Otto was interred in the shelving bank of the old moat, just under Aurelia’s window. A rough stone was laid upon the grave. The magic ring, which no one thought worth appropriating, remained upon the corpse’s finger. Thou mayest probably find it there, reader, if thou searchest long enough.
The first visitor to Otto’s humble sepulchre was, after all, Aurelia herself, who alighted thereon on the following night after letting herself down from her casement to fly with Arnold. Their escape was successfully achieved upon a pair of excellent horses, the proceeds of Otto’s diamond, which had become the property of a Jew.
On the third night an aged monk stood by Otto’s grave, and wept plentifully. He carried a lantern, a mallet, and a chisel. “He was my pupil,” sobbed the good old man. “It were meet to contribute what in me lies to the befitting perpetuation of his memory.”
Setting down the lantern, he commenced work, and with pious toil engraved on the stone in the Latin of the period:
“HAC MAGNUS STULTUS JACET IN FOSSA SEPULTUS.
MULIER CUI CREDIDIT MORTUUM ILLUM REDDIDIT.”
Here he paused, at the end of his strength and of his Latin.
“Beshrew my old arms and brains!” he sighed.
“Hem!” coughed a deep voice in his vicinity.