lived the saddest of all histories, the tragedy of all such women who are unlucky in their men—Margaret's tragedy, perhaps.
Hunter: But your Queen—
Boyd: No, don't be impatient. Mary Stuart is in my blood, I know, but I am thinking of your trouble only, John. Have you ever reflected on the strangeness of that Edinburgh story—the confusion of it, growing and growing through the years? History never so entangled itself. All the witnesses lied, and nearly all who have considered it have been absorbed in confirming this word, refuting that. And at the centre of it, obscured by our argument, is the one glowing reality, a passionate woman. Beside that, the rest is nothing, but we forget.
Hunter: What has this to do with Margaret?
Boyd: It is Margaret. These women—such women—can sometimes love so well that no man's nature can contain all that they have to give. There are men like that, too. And it is not a light love. The light lover has many, and rapidly shifting aims, but never two loyalties at once. But these others may love once, or twice, or often, but changelessly. They do not
