love unworthily—it is lamentable when they love unworthy men.
Hunter: Is a man unworthy, thinking of his honour?
Boyd: You talk amiss, talking so. History seethes with the error, society is drenched with it. Mary Stuart cared nothing for your honour—nor does Margaret. The lovers are wiser than that.
Hunter: Then I've done with it.
Boyd: No, surely. What is this honour that you extol?
Hunter: My right, my dignity, my manhood.
Boyd: And you have lived with the philosophers and the poets. Verily a little wind against the reason in our own lives. John, boy, your honour is pride, a poor brute jealousy, cruelty. That is the truth. Will you learn it?
Hunter: You know nothing.
Boyd: I know all.
Hunter: She has failed me.
Boyd: Who are you who should be glad of this woman's love, that you should presume to confine it, to dictate its motions? Is your wife a light of love?
Hunter: I believed not.
