Her poor attire again he scanned:
“Lady, once more; I grieve to jar
On all sweet usage, but must plead
To have what peeps there from your dress;
That letter—’tis justly prize of war”
She started—gave it—she must need.
“’Tis not from Mosby? May I read?”
And straight such matter he perused
That with the Guide he went apart.
The Hospital Steward’s turn began: