Then, out upon the trampled moor.
There, where the dead girl lay, she knelt
And made of her fair arms a belt
Around the corse; there, with her hair,
Wiped clean the face of earth and blood;
There, with her mouth, rebuked the stare
Of those strange eyes; last, made all good
By placing in the hands for rood
That which she pluck't from out the breast.
They watched if God should stand the test.