“The poem? No; it is the case for the prosecution. The prisoner may defend himself if he can.”
“The defence rests,” he said. “The prisoner moves that he be discharged.”
“Motion denied,” she interrupted promptly.
Somewhere in the woodland world the crows were holding a noisy session, and she told him that was the jury debating the degree of his guilt.
“Because you're guilty of course,” she continued. “I wonder what your sentence is to be?”
“I'll leave it to you,” he suggested lazily.
“Suppose I sentenced you to slay no more?”
“Oh, I'd appeal—”
“No use; I am the tribunal of last resort.”
“Then I throw myself upon the mercy of the court.”