"Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide:
And whosesoever the portrait prove,
His shall it be, when the cause is tried,
Where Death is arraigned by Love."
We found the portrait there in its place;
We opened it, by the tapers' shine;
The gems were all unchanged; the face
Was—neither his nor mine.
"One nail drives out another, at least!
The face of the portrait there," I cried,