They paused just at the crossing’s brink.

Said she, “We must turn back, I think.”

She eyes the mud. He sees her shrink,

Yet does not falter,

But recollects with fatal tact

That cloak upon his arm—in fact,

Resolves to do the courtly act

Of good Sir Walter.

Why is it that she makes no sound,

Staring aghast as on the ground

He lays the cloak with bow profound?

Her utterance chokes her.

She stands as petrified, until,

Her voice regained, in accents chill

She gasps, “I’ll thank you if you will

Pick up my cloak, sir!”