it had come to pass as she had often feared, that Pollock would die
by Claverhouse's doing, and now she had not been a woman if her heart
were not divided that evening between her lovers, although she had no
hesitation either then or in the past about her preference. Jean knew
she was not made to be the wife of an ascetic, but never could she
forget the look in Pollock's eyes when he told her of his love, nor
cease to be proud that he had done her the chief honor a man can
render to a woman. She knew then, and she knew better to-day, that she
had never loved Pollock, and never indeed could have loved him as a
woman loves her husband. But she revered him then, and he would have
forever a place in her heart like the niche given to a saint, and she
hoped that his prayers for her--for she knew he would intercede for
her--would be answered in the highest. Nor could she refrain from the
comparison between Pollock and Graham. In some respects they were so
like one another, both being men of ancient blood and high tradition,
both carrying themselves without shame and without fear, both being
fanatics--the one for religion and the other for loyalty--and, it
might be, both alike to be martyrs for their faith. And so unlike--the
one unworldly, spiritual, and, save in self-defence, gentle and meek;
the other charged with high ambition, fond of power, ready for battle,
gracious in gay society, passionate in love. Who had the better of it
in the fight--her debonair husband, with his body-guard of dragoons,
striking down and capturing a minister and a handful of shepherds, or
that pure soul, who lived preaching and praying, and was willing to
die praying and fighting against hopeless odds? She had cast in her
lot with the Royalists, but it came over her that in the eternal
justice Pollock, dying on the scaffold, was already victor, and
Graham, who sent him there, was already the loser. If it had been
cruel writing for Claverhouse, it was cruel reading for his wife, and
yet, when she had read it over again, the passage on Pollock faded
away as if it had been spiritualized and no longer existed for the
earthly sense. She only lingered over the words of devotion and
passion, and when she kissed again and again his signature she knew
that whether he was to win or to be beaten, whether he was right or
wrong, angel or devil--and he was neither--she belonged with her whole
desire to Claverhouse.

Claverhouse's letter to his wife was written