in a very sensitive place, and he touches me to the quick when he tells me that his crimes are known, but that every day greater ones are committed that one uselessly attempts to hide, since all crimes, whatsoever they be, great or small, come to men’s knowledge and form the common subject of their discourse.  He adds sometimes, in speaking to me of Madame de Rere, ’I wish her services may do you honour.’  He has assured me that many people thought, and that he thought himself, that I was not my own mistress; this is doubtless because I had rejected the conditions he offered me.  Finally, it is certain that he is very uneasy about you know what, and that he even suspects that his life is aimed at.  He is in despair whenever the conversation turns on you, Livingston, and my brother.  However, he says neither good nor ill of absent people; but, on the contrary, he always avoids speaking of them.  His father keeps to the house:  I have not seen him yet.  A number of the Hamiltons are here, and accompany me everywhere; all the friends of the other one follow me each time I go to see him.  He has begged me to be at his rising to-morrow.  My messenger will tell you the rest.

“Burn my letter:  there would be danger in keeping it.  Besides, it is hardly worth the trouble, being filled only with dark thoughts.

“As for you, do not be offended if I am sad and uneasy to-day, that to please you I rise above honour, remorse, and dangers.  Do not take in bad part what I tell you, and do not listen to the malicious explanations of your wife’s brother; he is a knave whom you ought not to hear to the prejudice of the most tender and most faithful mistress that ever was.  Above all, do not allow yourself to be moved by that woman:  her sham tears are nothing in comparison with the real tears that I shed, and with what love and constancy make me suffer at succeeding her; it is for that alone that in spite of myself I betray all those who could cross my love.  God have mercy on me, and send you all the prosperity that a humble and tender friend who awaits from you soon another reward wishes you.  It is very late; but it is always with regret that I lay down my pen when I write to you; however, I shall not end my letter until I shall have kissed your hands.  Forgive me that it is so ill-written:  perhaps I do so expressly that you may be obliged to re-read it several times:  I have transcribed hastily what I had written down on my tablets, and my paper has given out.  Remember a tender friend, and write to her often:  love me as tenderly as I love you, and remember

    “Madame de Rere’s words;
     The English;
     His mother;
     The Earl of Argyll;
     The Earl of Bothwell;
     The Edinburgh dwelling.”

SECOND LETTER