My conjecture had been correct: the strangers had slipped in before us, and they now stood by the vault of the Rochesters, their backs towards us, viewing through the rails the old time-stained marble tomb, where a kneeling angel guarded the remains of Damer de Rochester, slain at Marston Moor in the time of the civil wars, and of Elizabeth, his wife.
Mi suposición había sido acertada. Los dos desconocidos, entrando antes que nosotros, se hallaban dentro inclinados ahora sobre la cripta que guardaba los restos de los Rochester, y contemplando las tumbas de mármol en las que un ángel arrodillado custodiaba los restos de Damer de Rochester, muerto en Marston Moor durante las guerras civiles, y de Elizabeth, su mujer.