“’Tis Mosby’s fault, this halt and search”
The lady stiffened in her starch.
“My duty, madam, bids me now
Ask what may seem a little rude.
Pardon—that veil—withdraw it, please
(Corporal! make every man fall back);
Pray, now I do but what I should;
Bethink you, ’tis in masks like these
That Mosby haunts the villages.”
Slowly the stranger drew her veil,