What if to the selfsame place in
Rustic Avon, at the door
Of the village church once more,
Where a tombstone paves the floor
By that holy-water basin
You appealed to—"As, below.
This stone hides its corpse, e'en so
I your secrets hide"? What ho!
Friends, my four! You, Priest, confess him!
I have judged the culprit there: