“My beloved mother desires her particular and tender remembrances to be conveyed to you, her honoured son-in-law to be, and further commands that I express to you, as befittingly as I know how, her deep and ever-living gratitude and thanks for your past conduct in regard to me, and your present and noble-minded generosity concerning the dispositions you have made for us to remain under the amiable protection of Mr. Hake in Albany.

“Dear lad, what can I say for myself?  You are so glorious, so wonderful—­ and in you it does seem that all the virtues, graces, and accomplishments are so perfectly embodied, that at moments, thinking of you, I become afraid, wondering what it is in me that you can accept in exchange for the so perfect love you give me.

“I fear that you may smile on perusing this epistle, deeming it, perhaps, a trifle flowery in expression—­ but, Euan, I am so torn between the wild passion I entertain for you, and a desire to address you modestly and politely in terms of correspondence, as taught in the best schools, that I know not entirely how to conduct.  I would not have you think me cold, or too stiffly laced in the formalities of polite usage, so that you might not divine my heart a-beating under the dress that covers me, be it rifle-frock or silken caushet.  I would not have you consider me over-bold, light-minded, or insensible to the deep and sacred tie that already binds me to you evermore—­ which even, I think, the other and tender tie which priest and church shall one day impose, could not make more perfect or more secure.

“So I must strive to please you by writing with elegance befitting, yet permitting you to perceive the ardent heart of her who thinks of you through every blessed moment of the day.

“I pray, as my dear mother prays, that God, all armoured, and with His bright sword drawn, stand sentinel on your right hand throughout the dangers and the trials of this most just and bloody war.  For your return I pray and wait.

“Your humble and dutiful and obedient and adoring wife to be,

“Lois de Contrecoeur.

“Post scriptum:  The memory of our kiss fades not from my lips.  I will be content when circumstances permit us the liberty to repeat it.”

When I had read the letter again and again, I folded it and laid it in the bosom of my rifle-shirt.  Boyd still brooded over his letter, the red firelight bathing his face to the temples.

After a long while he raised his eyes, saw me looking at him, stared at me for a moment, then quietly extended the letter toward me.

“You wish me to read it?” I asked.

“Yes, read it, Loskiel, before I burn it,” he said drearily.  “I do not desire to have it discovered on my body after death.”

I took the single sheet of paper and read: 

  “Lieutenant Thomas Boyd,
      “Rifle Corps,
          “Sir: