She tried to pull her hand away; but he would not let her.
“No,” she said in a weeping voice. “Oh! how can you put me to the shame?”
“Is it shame? That must be a stale superstition. It were shame in my eyes to pluck my flower and leave it to wither.”
“Shame to the flower, that must be a bold, flaunting weed to invite such notice.”
“Betty, that is sorry logic. What weed ever won man’s heart?”
“I had best slip off and go back to my dead.”
“Down with you, girl! and we will lie and die in the snow together.”
“Oh, me! What can I say? Will your honour not ride on and forget I am here?”
“To be sure, Betty—as I forget myself. You had best not remind me of it by addressing me so.”
“I am your honour’s servant.”