And a mystery shroudeth all.
Old Peter the Beadsman breathes a sigh
As he passes the churchyard lone,
Where the bones of the best and the bravest lie,
All under a milk-white stone.
But winter and summer there lies a blot
On the scutcheon of grim Fitz-Urse;
And the two stood there, on the self-same spot,
As I said in the opening verse.