r. But I
had always one comfort, like a single star shining in a dark sky, and
that was the faithfulness of my wife. When a cloud obscured that
solitary light, then a frenzy passed into my blood. I ceased to
reason, and according to the measure of my love was my foolish,
groundless hate."

"Take back your sword, Dundee, for I am not now minded to use it. Five
minutes ago it had been dangerous to give it me. If ye fall, it shall
be by another hand than your wife's, and in another place than your
home. We have said words to one another this night which neither of us
will lightly pardon, for we are not of the pardoning kind. I do not
feel as I did: my anger has turned into sorrow; the idol of my
idolatry is broken--my fair model of chivalry--and now I can only
gather together the pieces. Even while I hated you I was loving
you--this is the contradiction of a woman's heart--and I knew that
love of me had made you mad. Whatever happens, I will always remember
that you loved me, but my dream has vanished--forever."

They spent next day walking quietly in the glen, and the following
morning he left for his last campaign. They said farewell alone, but
after he was in the saddle Lady Dundee lifted up the child for him to
kiss--which was to die before the year was out. He turned as they were
riding down the road and waved his plumed hat to his wife, where she
stood, still holding the child in her arms. And that was the last Jean
Cochrane saw of Claverhouse.

BOOK IV

CHAPTER I

TREASON IN THE CAMP

Since the day Dundee rode away from Glenogilvie, after the scene with
Jean, he was a man broken in heart, but he hid his private wound
bravely, and gave himself with the fiercer energy to the king's
business. Hither and thither through the Highlands he raced, so that
he was described in letters of that day as "skipping from one hill to
another like wildfire, which at last will vanish of itself for want of
fuel," and "like an incendiary to inflame that cold country, yet he
finds small encouragement." Anything more pathetic than this last
endeavor of Dundee, except it be his death, cannot be imagined. The
clans were not devoured with devotion to King James, and were not the
victims of guileless enthusiasm; they were not the heroes of romance
depicted by Jacobite poets and story-tellers: they were half-starved,
entirely ignorant, fond of fighting, but largely intent on stealing.
If there was any chance of a foray in which