"But I have no right to be here. I never did anything, I, myself, to deserve such treatment. It was Lord Vincent's fault. It was he who brought me to this!" whined Faustina.

"Nae doobt! nae doobt at a'! He's ane o' the natural enemies o' your sex, ye ken. And ye suld o' thocht o' that before ye trusted him sae far."

"I did not trust him at all. And I do not know what you mean by your insinuations, you horrid old red-headed beast!" cried Faustina.

"Whisht! whisht! haud your tongue, woman! Dinna be sae abusive! Fou' words du nae guid, as I aften hae occasion to impress upon the malefactors that are brocht here for safe-keeping," said the jailer, as he turned and looked around upon the underlings in attendance. Then beckoning one of the turnkeys to him, he said:

"Here, Cuddie, tak' this lass into the north corridor o' the women's ward; and when ye hae her safe in the cell, ye maun knock off the irons fra her wrists. Gang wi' Cuddie, lass; an dinna be fashed; he's nae a bad chiel."

Cuddie, a big, honest, good-natured looking brute, took a bunch of great keys from their hook on the wall and signing for his prisoner to follow him, turned to depart.

But Faustina showed no disposition to obey the order. And McRae, who had lingered in the room, now turned to the warden and said:

"If you please, sir, Sir Alexander McKetchum desired me to request you to put these prisoners into as comfortable quarters as you could command, consistent with their safe custody."

"Sir Alexander would do weel to mind his ain business. Wha the de'il gi'e him commission to dictate to me?" demanded the old Scot wrathfully.

"Nay, sir, he only makes the request as a personal favor," said McRae deprecatingly.

"Ou, aye, aweel, that's anither thing. Though there's nae muckle of choice amang the cells, for that matter; forbye it's the four points o' the compass, nor', sou', east, and wast. The jail is square and fronts nor', and the cells range accordingly. There's nae better than the nor' corridor o' the women's ward. Tak' the lass awa, Cuddie."

Cuddie laid his hand not unkindly on the shoulder of his prisoner, and Faustina, seeing at last that resistance was quite in vain, followed him out.

"Noo, Donald, mon," said the jailer, beckoning another turnkey, "convey his lairdship to the sou-wast corner cell in the men's ward. It has the advantage of twa windows and mare sunshine than fa's to the lot o' prison cells in general. And when ye get him there relieve him o' his manacles."

The officer addressed took down his bunch of keys, and turned to his prisoner. But Lord Vincent did not wait for the desecrating hand of the turnkey to be laid upon his shoulder. With a haughty gesture and tone he said:

"Lead the way, fellow; I follow you."

And Donald bowed and preceded his prisoner as if he had been a head- waiter of a fashionable hotel, showing an honored guest to his apartments.

When they were gone the old warden turned to the policeman:

"Will it gae hard wi' them, do ye think, McRae?"

"I think it will send them to penal servitude for twenty years or for life."

Meanwhile Cuddie conducted his prisoner through long lines of close, musty, fetid passages, and up high flights of cold, damp stone stairs, to the very top of the building, where the women's wards were situated.

Here he found a stout old woman, in a linen cap, plaid shawl, and linsey gown, seated at an end window, with her feet upon a foot- stove, and her hands engaged in knitting a stocking.

She was Mrs. Ferguson, the female turnkey.

"Here, mither, I hae brocht you anither prisoner," said Cuddie, coming up with his charge.

The old woman settled her spectacles on her nose, and looked up, taking a deliberate survey of the newcomer, as she said:

"Hech! the quean is unco foine; they be braw claes to come to prison in. Eh, Cuddie, I wad suner hae any ither than ane o' these hizzies brocht in."

"But, mither, the word is that she maun be made comfortable," said Cuddie.

"Ou, aye—nae doobt! she will be some callant's light o' luve, wha hae a plenty o' siller!" replied the old woman scornfully, as she rose from her place and led the way to the door of a cell about halfway down the same corridor.

"Ye'll pit her in here. It will be as guid as anither," she said.

Cuddie detached a certain key from his bunch and handed it to her. She opened the door, and they entered. The cell was a small stone chamber, six feet by eight, with one small grated window, facing the door. On the right of the window was a narrow bed, filling up that side of the cell; on the left was a rusty stove; that was all; there was no chair, no table, no strip of carpet on the cold stone floor; all was comfortless, desolate.

Faustina burst into a fresh flood of tears as she threw herself upon the wretched bed.

"Let me tak' aff the fetters," said Cuddie gently.

Faustina arose to a sitting position, and held up her hands.

Cuddie, with some trouble, got them off, but so awkwardly that he bruised and grazed her wrists in doing so, while Faustina wept piteously and railed freely. Cuddie was too good-natured to mind the railing, but the dame fired up:

"Haud your growlin', ye ne'er-do well! Gin ye had your deserts, for a fou'-mouthed jaud, ye'd be in a dark cell on bread and water!"

"Whisht! whisht, mither! Let her hae the length o' her tongue, puir lass! It does her guid, and it does me na hurt. There, lass—the airns are aff, and if you'll o'ny put your kershief aroun' your bonnie wrists they'll sune be weel eneugh."

"Take me away! take me away from that horrid ol woman!" cried Faustina, turning her wrath upon the dame and appealing to Cuddie.

"Whisht! dinna ye mind her. She's a puir dolted auld carline," said Cuddie, in a voice happily too low to reach the ear of said "carline."

"Ye maunna guid her siccan a sair gait, mither," said Cuddie, as they left the cell.

"I doobt she has guided hersel' an uco' ill ane," retorted the dame.

Faustina was left sitting on the side of the hard bed, weeping bitterly. She did not throw off her bonnet or cloak. She could not make herself at home in this wretched den. Besides, it was bitterly cold; there was no fire in the rusty stove and she wrapped her sables more closely around her.

She remained there in the same position, cowering, shivering and weeping, for two or three miserable hours, when she was at length broken in upon by the old dame, who brought in her prison dinner— coarse beef broth, in a tin can, with an iron spoon, and a thick hunk or oatmeal bread on a tin plate.

"What is that!" ask Faustina.

"Your dinner. Is it na guid o' the authorities to feed the like o' you for naething?"

"My dinner! ugh! Do you think I am going to swallow that swill—fit only for pigs?" exclaimed Faustina, in disgust.

"Hech, sirs! what's the warld comming to? It is guid broose, verra guid broose, that many an honest woman would be unco glad to hae for hersel' and her puir bairns, forbye you!" said the dame wrathfully.

"Take it away! the sight of it makes me ill!"

"Verra weel; just as you please. I'll set it here, till ye come to your stomach," said the dame, setting the can and plate down upon the stone floor, for there was no other place to put them.

"I want a fire—I am frozen!" cried Faustina.

"Why did na ye say sae before?" growled the dame, going out.

In a few minutes she came back, bringing coals and kindlings and lighted the fire, and then retreated as sullenly as she had entered. Faustina drew near the stove, and sat down upon the floor to hover over it.

When she grew warm her eyes began to glitter dangerously. She turned herself around and surveyed the place. Like the frozen viper thawed to life, her first instinct was to bite.

"I would like to set fire to the prison !" she said.

But a moment's reflection proved to her the folly of this impulse. If she should use the fire in her stove for such incendiary purposes, herself would be the only thing burned up; the cell of stone and its furniture of iron would escape with a smoking.

She put off her bonnet and her sables—the first time since the night before, and she threw herself upon the bed, and lay there in a torment until six o'clock in the evening, when the door was once more unlocked by the dame, who brought her the prison supper—a tin can of oatmeal porridge.

"Here's your parritch; ye may eat it or leave it, just as ye please," said the woman, setting the can on the floor.

"I want some tea! I will have none of your filthy messes! Bring me some tea!" cried Faustina.

"I wish ye may get it, lassie, that's a'," answered the dame, as she went out and locked the door behind her.

That was the last visit Faustina had that night. She lay on her hard bed, weeping, moaning, and lamenting her fate, until the last light of day died out of the narrow window, and left the cell in darkness, but for the dim red ray in the corner, that showed where the fire in the rusty stove burned. And still she lay there, until the pangs of hunger began to assail her. These she bore some time before she could overcome her repugnance to the prison fare. At length, however, she arose and groped her way about the stone floor until she found the can of beef broth, which, upon trying, she discovered to taste better than it looked. She ate it all; then she ate the hunk of bread; and finally she finished with the oatmeal porridge. And, then, without undressing, she threw herself on the outside of her bed; and, overcome with fatigue, distress, and vigilance, she fell into a deep sleep that lasted until the morning.

It might have lasted much longer, but she was aroused about seven o'clock, by the entrance of her keeper, bringing her breakfast.

"Eh!" said the dame, glancing at the empty cans, "but I thocht ye would come to your stomach. Here's your breakfast."

Faustina raised herself up and gazed around in a bewildered way, but she soon recollected herself, and looked inquiringly at her keeper.

"It's your breakfast," said the latter; "it's guid rye coffee, sweeted wi' treacle, and a braw bit o' bannock."

"I want water and soap and towels," said Faustina, in an angry, peremptory manner.

"Ou, aye, nae doobt; and ye would like a lady's maid, and perfumery 'till your toilet. Aweel, there is a stone jug and bowl of water, and a hempen clout ahint the stove, gin that will serve your purpose," said the dame, setting down the breakfast, and gathering the empty cans from the floor as she left the cell.

Faustina, poor wretch, made such a toilet as her rude providings enabled her to do, and then, with what appetite she might, made her morning meal. And then she sat on the edge of her bed and cried and wished herself dead.

At about eleven o'clock she heard footsteps and voices approaching the cell. And the door was opened by the turnkey, who ushered in Mrs. MacDonald, followed by a servant from the castle, bringing a large box and a basket.

The servant set down his burdens and retired with the turnkey, who immediately locked the door.

And not until then, when they were left alone, did this precious pair of female friends rush into each other's arms, Faustina bursting into tears and sobbing violently on the bosom of Mrs. MacDonald, and Mrs. MacDonald wheedling, caressing, and soothing Faustina.

"Mine pet, mine darling, mine bonny bairn," were some of the epithets of endearment bestowed by the lady upon her favorite.

"Oh, madame, what a purgatory of a place, and what demons of people!" Faustina cried.

"Yes, my sweet child, yes, I know it! but bear up!"

"Nothing fit to eat, or drink, or sleep on, or sit down, or even to wash with; and no one to speak a civil word to me!" wailed Faustina, still dwelling upon present inconveniences rather than, thinking of the future perils.

"Yes, my dear, yes, I know; but now, sit you down and see what I have brought you," said Mrs. MacDonald, gently forcing Faustina to seat herself upon the side of the bed.

"Look at my poor dress," said Faustina, pointing down to the delicate white evening dress in which she had been arrested, and which was now crumpled, torn, and stained.

"Eh, but that's a woeful sight! But I thought of it, my bairn, and I have brought you a plain black silk and white linen collars and sleeves. Let me help you to change your dress, and I will take that white one home with me."

Faustina agreed to this, and when the change was effected she certainly presented a more respectable appearance.

Mrs. MacDonald next unpacked the large basket, taking from it a dressing-case, furnished with every requisite for the toilet; a work-box, with every convenience for a lady's busy-idleness; and a writing-desk, with every necessary article for epistolary correspondence.

"Now where shall I put them?" she inquired, looking around upon the bare cell.

"Ah, the beastly place!" exclaimed Faustina; "there is no table, no stand; you will have to leave them on the floor or set them on the window sill."

Mrs. MacDonald ranged them on the floor, against the wall, under the window.

And then she rolled up the spoiled evening dress and crowded it into the empty basket. Next she took the trunk and pushed it under the bed, saying:

"In that trunk, my dear, you will find every requisite change of clothing. The basket I will take back."

"Ah, but I want many more things beside clothing. I want tea and coffee. I want bed linen and china; and—many more things," said Faustina impatiently,

"And you shall have everything you want, my dear. Your purse is in your writing desk. There are a hundred and forty guineas in it. Money will buy you all you want. And I will see it brought," said Mrs. Dugald, going to the cell door and rapping.

Dame Ferguson came and unlocked it.

"I wish to come out," said Mrs. MacDonald.

"Aye, me leddy," said the dame, courtesying and making way for the visitor to pass; for the carriage, with the Hurstmonceux arms emblazoned upon its panels, the servant in the livery of the Earl of Hurstmonceux, and the haughty air of the lady visitor, all impressed the female turnkey with a feeling of awe.

"I wish to speak with you, dame," said Mrs. MacDonald.

"Aye, me leddy, and muckle honor till me!" replied the woman, with another low courtesy, as she led the way to her seat at the window at the extreme end of the corridor.

"I wish to bespeak your attention to the lady I have just left," said Mrs. MacDonald.

"Aye, me leddy! Ye will be ane o' the beneevolent leddies wha gang about, seeking for the lost sheep o' the house o' Israel, meaning sic puir misguided lasses as yon! Ye'll be aiblins, ane o' the leddy directors o' the Magdalen Hospital?" said Mrs. Ferguson.

"The—what? I don't know what you mean, woman. I am speaking to you of a lady-the Honorable Mrs. Dugald."

"A leddy? The Honorable Mistress Dugald? Ou! aye! forgi'e me, your leddyship. I'm e'en but a puir, auld, doitted bodie. I e'en thocht ye were talking o' yon misguided quean in the cell. The Honorable Mistress Dugald. She'll be like yoursel', intereested in yon lassie; and aiblins ain o' the leddy direectors o' the Magdalen."

"I think you are a fool. The misguided lassie, as you have the impudence to call her, is no misguided lassie at all. She is the Honorable Mrs. Dugald, of Castle Cragg," said Mrs. MacDonald impatiently.

"Wha—she—the lass in yon cell, the Honorable—Mistress—Dugald?"

"Herself!"

"Hech, that's awfu'l"

"So I wished to give you a hint to treat her with the consideration due to her rank."

"Eh, sirs! but that's awfu'!" repeated the dame, unable to overget her astonishment.

"She has money enough to pay for all that she requires and to reward those who are kind to her besides," continued Mrs. MacDonald.

"Nae doobt! nae doobt! bags o' gowd and siller! bags o' gowd and siller! What a puir, auld, doitted, fule bodie I was, to be sure," said the dame, in a tone of regret.

"Now, I want to know whether she cannot have a few comforts in her cell, if she is able and willing to pay for them, and to reward her attendants for bringing them?"

"And what for no? The bonny leddy sail hae a' that she craves, whilk is consistent wi' her safe-keeping."

"And certainly her friends would ask no more."

"What would her leddyship like to begin wi'?"

"She is to remain here for a week; therefore she would like to have her cell fitted up comfortably. She will want a piece of carpeting to cover the floor; some nice fine bedding and bed linen; a toilet service of china; a single dinner and tea service of china; and a silver fork and spoon. Can you recollect all these articles?"

"What for no?"

"But stay, I forgot; she will want a small table and an easy-chair and footstool. Can you remember them all?"

"Ilk a ane!"

"Twenty pounds, I should think, would cover the whole expense. Here is the money; take it and send out and get the things as soon as you can," said Mrs. MacDonald, putting two ten-pound notes in the hand of the dame.

"I'll has them all in by twal' o' the clock," answered the dame zealously. "Be guid till us! The Honorable Mrs. Dugald! Yon quean! Who'd hae thocht it? But what will be the reason they pit the bonny leddy in prison? It's wonderfu'! It canna be for ony misdeed?"

"No, dame, it is for no misdeed. Ah! you have not read history, or you would know that ladies of the highest rank, even queens and princesses, have been sometimes put in prison."

"Guid be guid till us! For what crime, gin your leddyship pleases?"

"For no crime at all. They have been accused of treason, or conspiracy, or something."

"And sic will be the case wi' this puir leddy?"

"Yes," said Mrs. MacDonald, whose regard for the truth was not of the strictest description.

"And what did they do wi' the puir queens?"

"Cut off their heads."

"Hech! that was awfu'! And what will they do wi' this puir leddy?"

"Release her after a while, because they can prove nothing against her, and because she has powerful friends."

"Eh, but that's guid."

"And those friends will well reward such of the officers of the prison as shall be kind to her during her incarceration," said Mrs. MacDonald meaningly. "And now I will trouble you to unlock the door and admit me for a few minutes to see Mrs. Dugald."

"Surely, me leddy," said the dame, with alacrity.

When Mrs. MacDonald found herself once more alone with her friend she said:

"You will have everything you may require for your comfort in the course of a few hours; and you will have no more trouble from the insolence of your attendant. I have arranged all that. And now, my dear, I am going to see the viscount. What message have you for him?"

"None at all. I hate him; he has brought me to this! And he deceived me about the black woman's death and nearly frightened me into illness. Ah! the beast!" exclaimed Faustina, with a vehemence of spite that quite astounded her visitor.

"My dear," she said, after she had in some degree recovered her composure and collected her faculties, "that there is something very dreadful in this arrest no one can doubt; some charge of kidnaping in which you are both said to be implicated. But let us hope that the charge will be disproved; let us say that it will; in which case, will it be well for you to quarrel with the viscount? Think of it, and send him some kind message."

"I cannot think, and I will not send him any message," persisted Faustina.

"Then I must think for you. Good-by for a little while, my pet. I will be with you again before I leave town," said Mrs. MacDonald, as she left the cell.

She proceeded immediately to the warden's office, and requested permission to visit the Viscount Vincent in his cell.

"Auld Saundie Gra'am," as he was called, beckoned the turnkey of the ward in which the viscount was confined, and ordered him to conduct the lady to Lord Vincent's cell. The man took down his bunch of keys and, with a bow, turned and preceded Mrs. MacDonald upstairs to a corridor on the second floor, flanked each side with grated doors.

The visitor followed her conductor up the whole length of this corridor to a corner door, which he unlocked to admit the visitor. As soon as she passed in he locked the door on her and remained waiting on the outside.

Mrs. MacDonald found herself in the presence of Lord Vincent. As the cell occupied by the viscount was in the angle of the building it possessed the advantage of two small windows, one with a southern and one with a western outlook. And the sun shone in all day long, giving it a more cheerful aspect than usually belongs to such dreary places. It was furnished with the usual hard narrow bed and rusty iron stove. Besides this, it had the unusual convenience of a chair, upon which the viscount sat, and a table at which he wrote.

In one corner of the cell was old Cuthbert, kneeling down over an open trunk from which he was unpacking his master's effects. As Mrs. MacDonald entered the viscount arose, bowed, and handed her to the solitary chair with as much courtly grace as though he had been doing the honors of his own drawing-room.

"I find you more comfortable, or rather, as I should say, less uncomfortable, than I found Mrs. Dugald, poor child," said the visitor, after she sank into a seat.

"Yes, thanks to the chance that left my pocketbook in my pocket," answered the prisoner, with a defiant smile, as he seated himself on the side of the cot.

"I found her with scarcely the decent necessities of life; but I have sent out to purchase for her what is needful, poor angel."

The smile died out of the viscount's face, which became pale, cold, and hard as marble. He made no reply.

"She sent you many kind messages," began Mrs. MacDonald; but the viscount interrupted her.

"Madam," he said, "I wish never to hear that woman's name mentioned in my hearing again."

"Eh, but that is strange! You will have had a misunderstanding."

"A misunderstanding! I tell you, madam, that her base cowardice, her shameful treachery, and her utter selfishness have disgusted me beyond measure."

"Eh, me! friends should na quarrel that length either. You have both had your tempers severely tried. When you get out of this trouble you will be reconciled to each other."

"Never! I loathe that woman! And if I were free to-day, my first act should be to hurry to Castle Cragg and bar the doors against her re- entrance there. And my second should be to send all her traps after her."

Finding at length that it was worse than useless to speak one word in favor of Faustina while the viscount was in his present mood of mind, Mrs. MacDonald turned the conversation by:

"Well, my lord, I hope you have taken proper precautions for your defense at the preliminary examination."

"I have engaged counsel, who is even now at work upon my case."

"And I trust, my lord, that you have summoned the earl. His presence here would be a tower of strength to you."

"I am aware of that. I do not, however, know exactly where to put my hand down upon my father. I telegraphed to his London bankers to-day to know his address. The answer came that he was at St. Petersburg at the last advices. I shall cause a telegram to be sent to him there, in the care of our minister. It may or may not find him."

"And now, my lord, what can I do for you?" said Mrs. MacDonald, rising.

"Nothing, whatever, my dear madam, except to return to the castle and remain there and keep it warm for me against I get back," said the viscount courteously, rising to see his visitor to the door of the cell—a distance of eight feet from the spot where they stood.

Mrs. MacDonald went back to the cell of Faustina, where she remained until the comforts she had sent her were brought in. Then she superintended their arrangement, and even assisted with her own hands in the laying down of the strip of carpet, the making of the bed, and the adjusting of the table.

"There, my dear," she said, when all was done; "I think you are now as tidy and as comfortable as it is possible to be in such a place as this."

"Thank you," said Faustina; "but since you have been in here this last time you have not once mentioned Lord Vincent's name. I suppose you have a reason for your reticence. I suppose he has been speaking ill of me. It would be like him, to bring me into this trouble and then malign me."

"No, my darling, he has not breathed a syllable of reproach against you. He has spoken of you most considerately. He has charged me with many affectionate messages to you," said this disinterested peacemaker, whose personal interests were all at stake in the quarrel between the viscount and his fellow-prisoner.

"I don't want to hear his messages. I hate the sound of his name, and I wish I had never seen the sight of his face. But, Mrs. MacDonald, I thank you for the kindness you have shown me," said Faustina.

Mrs. MacDonald kissed her by way of answer. And then she sent out and ordered a luxurious little dinner, which was promptly brought and served in the cell. And after dinner they had a dessert of fruit, and after that coffee, just as they bad been accustomed to have these things at Castle Cragg.

Coffee cup in hand, Mrs. MacDonald remained chatting with her friend until the hour arrived for locking up the prison for the night. Then, with a promise to return the next day, and to come every day, she took leave and departed, returning to Castle Cragg in the family carriage, driven by old Cuthbert.

This day was a fair sample of all the days passed in prison by the Viscount Vincent and Mrs. Dugald up to the time of the preliminary examination before the magistrate.

The viscount occupied himself with writing, making notes for his defense, or holding consultation with his counsel. As he had plenty of ready money, he did not want any comfort, convenience, or luxury that money could provide. The earl, his father, however, did not arrive, and had not even been heard from.

Faustina passed her days in prison in eating, drinking, sleeping, and repining. Mrs. MacDonald came in every day to see her, and always stayed and dined with her. Mrs. MacDonald rather liked the daily airing she got in her ride to and fro between the castle and the prison. She liked also the epicurean dinners that Faustina would buy and pay for, and thus she was a miracle of constancy and fidelity.

Old dame Ferguson was their attendant. She also was bought with money. And from having been the arrogant mistress of her prisoner, she was now the humble slave of her "leddyship,"—that being the title to which she had advanced Mrs. Dugald.

Thus the days passed, bringing at length the important morning upon which the preliminary examination was to be held, in which it was to be decided whether these prisoners should be honorably discharged or whether they should be committed to jail to stand their trial upon the charge of kidnaping and conspiracy.

The Earl of Hurstmonceux had not yet been heard from; but the Viscount Vincent had prepared himself with the best defense possible to be got up in his case.

Judge Merlin and his witnesses had been duly notified to appear; and they were now in town, lodging at the very house from which the prisoners obtained their recherche meals.



CHAPTER XLV.

THE VISCOUNT'S FALL.

They that on glorious ancestors enlarge Produce their debt instead of their discharge. —Young.



The viscount ordered his carriage to be in readiness to convey him to the magistrate's office. Old Cuthbert was punctual. And accordingly on the morning in question Lord Vincent, and Faustina, attended by Mrs. MacDonald, and the policemen that had them in custody, entered the carriage and were driven to the town hall.

Here again, as on a former occasion, the viscount, in alighting, ordered the coachman to keep the carriage waiting for him. Then he and his party passed through the same halls and ante-chambers, guarded by policemen, and entered the magistrate's office.

Sir Alexander McKetchum was already in his seat on the little raised platform. His clerk sat at a table below him. On his right hand stood several officers of the law. On his left hand stood Judge Merlin, Ishmael Worth, and the witnesses that had been summoned for the prosecution.

The Policeman McRae led his charge up in front of the magistrate, and taking off his hat, said:

"Here are the prisoners, your worship."

Lord Vincent, as with the purpose of proving himself a gentleman at least in external manners, even under the most trying circumstances, advanced and bowed to the magistrate.

Sir Alexander acknowledged his salute by a nod, and then said:

"Noo, then, as ye are here, me laird, we may as weel proceed wi' the investigation."

"I beg your pardon, sir; I am expecting my counsel," said the viscount.

"Aweel! I suppose we maun wait a bit," said the magistrate.

But at this moment the counsel for the prisoner hurried into the office.

"We have waited for you, Mr. Bruce," said the viscount reproachfully.

"I am very sorry that you should have been obliged to do so, my lord! But the truth is, I have been to the telegraph office, to send a message of inquiry at the last moment to your lordship's London bankers, to ask if the Earl of Hurstmonceux had yet been heard from. I waited for the answer, which has but just arrived, and which has proved unsatisfactory."

"The earl has not written to his London bankers, then?"

"No, my lord."

"Are you ready for the examination?"

"Quite, my lord."

"Aweel, then, I suppose we may proceed," said Sir Alexander.

"At your worship's convenience," replied Mr. Bruce, with a bow.

And thereupon the proceedings commenced. The magistrate took up the warrant that had been issued for the arrest of the prisoners, and read it to them aloud. Then addressing them both, he said:

"Malcolm, Laird Vincent, and you, Faustina Dugald, are herein charged wi' having felonious conspired against the guid character o' Claudia, Viscountess Vincent, and to farther said conspiracy, wi' having abducted and sold into slavery the bodies of three negroes, named herein—Catherine Mortimer, James Mortimer, and Sarah Sims; whilk are felony against the peace and dignity o' the Queen's majesty, and punishable by penal servitude, according to the statute in sich cases made and provided. What hae ye to say for yoursel's in answer to this charge?"

"I deny it in toto. And I think it infamous that I should be called to answer such an insulting charge," said the viscount with a fine assumption of virtuous indignation.

"And sae do I think it infamous; I agree wi' ye there, lad! But as to whilk pairty the infamy attaches to, there we may differ," said the magistrate, nodding.

The viscount drew himself up in haughty silence, as though he disdained farther reply.

"And noo, Faustina Dugald, what hae ye to say for yoursel'?"

"I did not conspire! I did not abduct! I did not sell into slavery any negro bodies! I did not do anything wrong! Not I myself!" cried Faustina vehemently,

"There, there, that will do. We will hear the testimony on this case. Let Ishmael Worth, of Washington, come forward," said the magistrate.

Ishmael advanced, bowed to the magistrate, and stood waiting.

"Ross, administer the oath," said the magistrate.

The clerk took a copy of the Holy Scriptures and held them towards Ishmael, at the same time dictating the oath, according to the custom of such officials.

But Ishmael, at the very onset, courteously interrupted him by saying gently:

"I am conscientiously opposed to taking an oath; but I will make a solemn affirmation of the truth of what I am about to state."

There was some objection made by the counsel for the prisoners, some hesitation upon the part of the clerk, some consultation with the magistrate; and finally it was decided that Mr. Worth's solemn affirmation should be accepted in lieu of an oath.

"I am sorry," said Ishmael courteously, "to have made this difficulty about a seemingly small matter; but in truth, no point of conscience is really a small matter."

"Certainly no," responded the magistrate.

Ishmael then made his formal affirmation, and gave in his testimony. First of all he identified the negroes—Catherine Mortimer, James Mortimer, and Sarah Sims—as the servants, first of Judge Randolph Merlin, of Maryland, and of his daughter Claudia, Lady Vincent. Then he testified to the fact of the finding of the negroes, each in a state of slavery, in the island of Cuba; their recovery by Judge Merlin; and their return, in his company, to Scotland.

At the conclusion of this evidence the counsel for the prisoners made some sarcastic remarks about the reliability of the testimony of a witness who refused to make his statement upon oath; but he was sharply rebuked for his pains by the magistrate.

"Judge Randolph Merlin will please to come forward," was the next order of the clerk.

"I have no conscientious scruples about taking an oath, though I certainly honor the scruples of others. And I am ready to corroborate upon oath the testimony of the last witness," said Judge Merlin, advancing and standing before the magistrate. The oath was duly administered to him, and he began his statement.

He also identified the three negroes as his own family servants, who were transferred to his daughter's service on the occasion of her marriage with Lord Vincent, and who were taken by her to Scotland. He likewise testified to the facts of finding the three negroes in the city of Havana in a condition of slavery, and the repurchasing and transporting them to Scotland.

The counsel for the accused took various exceptions to the evidence given in by this witness; but his exceptions were set aside by the magistrate as vexatious and immaterial.

Then he cross-examined the witness as severely as if the case, instead of being in a magistrate's office, were before the Lords Commissioners of the Assizes. But this cross-examination only had the effect of emphasizing the testimony of the witness, and impressing the facts more firmly upon the mind of the magistrate. And then, as the counsel could make nothing by perseverance in this course, he permitted the witness to sit down.

"Catherine Mortimer will come forward," said the clerk.

"That's me! I's got leabe to talk at last!" said old Katie, with a malignant nod at the accused. And she stepped up, folded her arms upon her bosom, threw back her head, and stood with an air of conscious importance most wonderful to behold.

"Your name is Catherine Mortimer?" said the clerk.

"Yes, young marse—yes, honey, dat my name—Catherine Mortimer. Which Catherine were the name giben me by my sponsibles in baptism; and Mortimer were de name 'ferred upon me in holy matrimony by my late demented 'panion; which he was de coachman to ole Comedy Burghe, as fought de Britishers in the war of eighteen hundred and twelve."

"What the de'il is the woman talking about?" here put in the magistrate.

"She is giving testimony in this case," sarcastically answered the counsel for the accused.

"My good woman, we don't want to hear any of your private history previous to the time of your first landing on these shores. We want to know what happened since. Your name, you say, is Catherine Mortimer—"

"Hi, young marse, what I tell you? Sure it is; Catherine Mortimer, 'spectable widder 'oman, 'cause Mortimer, poor man, died of 'sumption when he was 'bout forty-five years of age, which I hab libed ebber since in 'spectable widderhood, and wouldn't like to see de man as would hab de imperance to ax me to change my condition," said Katie, rolling herself from side to side in the restlessness of her intense self-consciousness.

"Catherine Mortimer, do you understand the nature of an oath?" inquired the clerk.

"Hi, young marse, what should 'vent me? Where you think I done been libbin all my days? You mus' think how I's a barbarium from the Stingy Isles!" replied Katie indignantly.

"I ask you—do you understand the nature of an oath, and I require you to give a straightforward answer," said the clerk.

"And I think it's berry 'sultin' in you to ax a' spectable colored 'oman any such question. Do I understan' de natur' ob an oaf? You might 's well ax me if I knows I's got a mortal soul to be save'! Yes, I does unnerstan' de natur' ob an oaf. I knows how, if anybody takes a false one, which it won't be Catherine Mortimer, they'll go right straight down to de debbil—and serbe 'em right!"

"Very well, then," said the clerk. And he put a small Bible into her hand and dictated the usual oath, which she repeated with an awful solemnity of manner that must have carried conviction of her perfect orthodoxy to the minds of the most skeptical cavilers.

"Your name, you say, is Catherine Mortimer?" said the clerk, as if requiring her to repeat this fact also under oath.

The repetition of the question nettled Katie.

"My good g'acious alibe," she said, "what I tell you? You think you gwine catch me in a lie by 'peating of questions ober and ober in dat a way? Now look here, young marse, I aint been tellin' of you no lies, and if I was a-lying, you couldn't catch me dat a way, 'cause I'se got too good a membery, dere! So, now I tell you ag'in my name is Catherine Mortimer, and like-wise it aint Gorilla, as my lordship and his shamwally used to call me. I done found out what dat means now! It means monkey! which is a 'fernally false! 'cause my fambily aint got no monkey blood in 'em. 'Dough I'd rather be a monkey dan a lordship, if I couldn't be no better lordship den some!" said Katie, with a vindictive nod of her head towards the viscount.

"What is the creature discoorsing anent?" inquired the perplexed magistrate.

"She is giving in her evidence," replied the counsel for the accused.

"You dry up! Who's you? Mus' be my lordship's new shamwally making yourself so smart. Reckon I'll give evidence enough to fix you and my lordship out!" snapped Katie.

"Now, then, tell us what you know of this case," said the clerk.

"What I know ob dis case? Why, in de fus' place, I know how my lordship dere—and a perty lordship he is—and de oder shamwally, which I don't see here present, and dat whited saltpeter, ought ebery single one ob dem to be hung up as high as Harem. Dere! dat what I know; and I hope you'll do it, ole marse!" said Katie vindictively.

"Whisht, whisht, my good woman! Ye are no here to pronounce judgment, but to gi'e testimony. Confine yoursel' to the facts!" said the magistrate.

But this order was more easily made than obeyed. It was very difficult for Katie to confine herself to the statement of facts, for the reason that she seemed to imagine herself prosecutor, witness, judge, jury, and executioner all rolled into one. It took all the tact of the clerk to get from her what could be received as purely legal evidence.

Katie's testimony would be nothing new to the reader. Her statement under oath to the magistrate was the same in effect that she had made to Judge Merlin. And although it was rather a rambling narrative, mixed up with a good deal of bitter invective against the accused, and gratuitous advice to the bench, and acute suggestions of the manner of retribution that ought to be measured out to the culprits, yet still the shrewd magistrate managed to get from it a tolerably clear idea of the nature of the conspiracy formed against the honor of Lady Vincent and the motive for the abduction of the negroes. And although the counsel for the accused labored hard to get this evidence set aside, it was accepted as good.

"James Mortimer," called the clerk.

And Jim walked forward and stood respectfully waiting to be examined.

The clerk, after putting the same questions to Jim that he had put to Jim's mother, and receiving the most satisfactory answers, administered the usual oath and proceeded with the examination.

Jim said he was the son of the last witness, and he corroborated the statements made by her, as far as his own personal experience corresponded with hers. And although he was severely cross-examined, he never varied from his first story, and his testimony was held good.

"Sarah Sims," was the next called.

And Sally advanced modestly and stood respectfully before the magistrate.

Having satisfactorily answered the preliminary questions that were put to her, she took the prescribed oath with a deep reverence of manner that prepossessed everyone, except the accused and their counsel, in her favor.

And then she gave her testimony in a clear, simple, concise manner, that met the approval of all who heard her. The counsel for the accused cross-examined her with ingenuity, but without success.

Sally's testimony was decidedly the most conclusive of any given by the three negroes. And she was allowed to sit down.

Then the counsel for the accused arose and made a speech, in which he ingeniously sought to do away with the effect of all the evidence that had been given in against the prisoners. He took exception to Ishmael's evidence because Mr. Worth had declined to give it under oath; to Judge Merlin's, because, he said, that ancient man was so well stricken with years as to be falling into his dotage; to old Katie's, because most decidedly he declared she was totally unreliable, being half monkey, half maniac, and whole knave; to Jim's, because he averred him to be wholly under the influence of others; to Sally's, for the same reason. It would be monstrous, he said, to send a nobleman and a lady to trial upon such evidence as had been given in by such witnesses as had appeared there. And he ended by demanding that his clients should be instantly and honorably discharged from custody, and particularly that they should not be remanded.

And he sat down.

"Dinna ye fash yersel', laddie! I hae na the least intention to remaund the accused. I s'all commit them for trial," said the magistrate. Then looking down upon his clerk, he said:

"Ross, mon, mak' out the warrants."

A perfect storm of remonstrance, strange to witness in a magistrate's office, arose. The lawyer sprang upon his feet and vehemently opposed the committal. Lord Vincent indignantly exclaimed against the outrage of sending a nobleman of the house of Hurstmonceux to trial. Faustina went into hysterics, and was attended by Mrs. MacDonald.

Meanwhile the clerk coolly made out the warrants and placed them in the hands of McRae for execution. That prompt policeman proceeded to take possession of his prisoners. But the storm increased; Faustina's screams awoke the welkin; Lord Vincent's loud denunciation accompanied her in bass keys; the lawyer's wild expostulations and gesticulations arose above all.

Sir Alexander had borne all this tempestuous opposition very patiently at first; but the patience of the most long-suffering man may give out. Sir Alexander's did.

"McRae, remove the prisoners. And, laddie," he said to the denunciatory lawyer, "gin ye dinna haud your tongue, I'll commit yoursel' for contempt!"

Lord Vincent, seeing that all opposition must be worse than vain, quietly yielded the point and followed his conductor. But Faustina's animal nature got the ascendency, and she resisted, fought and screamed like a wildcat. It took half a dozen policemen to put her into the carriage, and then the handcuffs had to be put on her.

As soon as quiet was restored another case was called on. It was that of Frisbie, the ex-valet, charged with the murder of Ailsie Dunbar.



CHAPTER XLVI

THE FATE OF THE VISCOUNT.

Oh, vanity of youthful blood, So by misuse to poison good. Reason awakes and views unbarred The sacred gates she wished to guard, Sees approach the harpy law, And Nemesis beholds with awe, Ready to seize the poor remains That vice has left of all his gains. Cold penitence, lame after-thought, With fear, despair, and horror fraught, Call back the guilty pleasures dead, Whom he has robbed and whom betrayed! —Bishop Hoadley.



When the carriage containing the prisoners reached the jail, they were taken out to be conducted to the warden's office. The viscount, who was in a mood of suppressed fury, was attended by Policeman McRae and followed by old Cuthbert, broken-hearted by the dishonor of his master.

Faustina, who had raged herself into a state of exhaustion and consequently of quietude, was attended by policeman Christie and supported by Mrs. MacDonald who tenderly soothed and flattered her.

It was a busy day in the warden's office, and the warden had but little time to bestow on these interesting prisoners.

"And sae they ha'e committed ye for trial, me laird, mair's the pity; and the puir lassie too; me heart is sair for her," said Auld Saundie Gra'ame, as they were led up to his desk to have their names re-entered upon the prison-books.

"It was a most unwarrantable proceeding! a monstrous abuse of office! an outrage that should be punished by immediate impeachment!" burst forth the viscount, in a fury.

"As to that, me laird, I ha'e never yet seen the prisoner enter these wa's wi' ony verra great esteem for the authorities that sent him here," dryly replied Auld Saundie.

Then turning to an under-warden he said:

"Ye'll convey the prisoners back to the cells occupied by them before."

And Faustina was carried back to the woman's ward, followed by the sympathizing Mrs. MacDonald, who promised to remain with her until the hour of closing up.

And the viscount, attended by Cuthbert, was conducted to his corner cell, there to abide until the day of trial.

Old Cuthbert remained with his master until he was summoned to drive Mrs. MacDonald back to the castle.

Several days passed. Every morning Mrs. MacDonald, driven by Cuthbert in the family carriage, came to town, to spend the day in the cell with Faustina, while Cuthbert remained in attendance upon the viscount. And every evening she returned to the castle.

The Earl of Hurstmonceux did not come. But news at length came of him. His bankers wrote that he was out on his yacht, his exact latitude being unknown.

Lord Vincent, now that he was fully committed for trial, really did not seem to be anxious for his father's return. Perhaps he would rather not have met the earl under the present circumstances. He held daily consultations with his counsel. These were entirely confidential. Being assured by Mr. Bruce that it was essentially necessary the counsel should be in possession of all the facts, the prisoner made a tolerably clean breast of it, at least so far as the abduction of the negroes was concerned; he exercised some little reticence in the matters of his relations with Faustina and his conspiracy against Lady Vincent.

Mr. Brace of course put the fairest construction upon everything; but still he could not help feeling the darkest misgivings as to the result of the approaching trial. And the viscount, rendered keenly observant by intense anxiety, detected these doubts in the mind of his counsel, and became daily more despairing.

He looked forward to the dishonor of a public trial with burning indignation; to the possible, nay probable, conviction and sentence that might follow with shrinking dread, and to the execution of that sentence with stony horror.

Penal servitude! Great Heaven! penal servitude for him, so high- born, so fastidious, so luxurious in all his habits! Penal servitude for him, the Viscount Vincent!

He had often made one of a party of sight-seers, visiting the prisons, the hulks, the quarries, where the prisoners were confined at work. He had seen them in the coarse prison garb, working in chains, under the broiling sun of summer, and under the bitter cold of winter. He had seen them at their loathsome meals and in their stifling sleeping pens. He had gazed upon them with eyes of haughty, cold, unsympathizing curiosity. To him and his friends they formed but a spectacle of interest or amusement, like a drama.

And now to think that he might, nay, probably would, soon make one of their shameful number! The Viscount Vincent working in chains; gazed at by his former companions; pointed out to curious strangers! That was the appalling picture forever present to his imagination.

How bitterly he deplored the crimes that had exposed him to this fate. How deeply he cursed the siren whose fatal beauty had lured him to sin. How passionately he longed for death, as the only deliverance from the memory of the past, the terrors of the present, the horrors of the future. Day and night that appalling future stared him in the face. Day and night the picture of himself working in chains, pointed out, stared at, was before his mind's eyes.

By day it obtruded between him and the face of any visitor that might be with him. Even when in consultation with his counsel his mind would wander from the subject in hand, and his imagination would be drawn away to the contemplation of that dread picture.

By night it would rise up in the darkness and nearly drive him mad.

He could not eat, he could not sleep. He passed his days in pacing to and fro in his narrow cell, and his nights in tossing about upon his restless bed. His sufferings were pitiable, and his worst enemy must have felt sorry for him.

His condition moved the compassion of the warden, and every indulgence that was in the power of old Saundie to bestow was granted to him. And as he was not yet absolutely convicted, but only waiting his trial, these indulgences were considerable. Old Cuthbert was allowed to visit him freely during the day, and to bring him anything in the way of food, drink, clothing, books, stationery, etc., that he required. And very little supervision was exercised over these matters.

Meantime as the Assizes were sitting, and the docket was not very full, it was thought that the trial would soon come on.

On the Wednesday following the committal of the viscount the trial of the murderer, Frisbie, which stood before that of his master on the docket, did come on. The detective police had been busy during the interval between Frisbie's arrest and arraignment, and they had succeeded in collecting a mass of evidence and a number of witnesses besides old Katie.

Frisbie, however, was defended by the best counsel that mere money could procure. There are many among the best lawyers who will not take up a bad case at any price. But Frisbie, as I said, had the best among the unscrupulous that money could buy. His master of course paid the fees. His counsel very gratuitously instructed him to plead "Not Guilty," and of course he did plead "Not Guilty." And his counsel did the best thing they could to establish his innocence. But the evidence against him was conclusive. And on the morning of the second day of his trial Frisbie was found guilty and sentenced to death. But a short period between sentence and execution was then allowed in Scotland. The execution of Frisbie was fixed for the Monday following his conviction.

From the hour that Frisbie had been brought to trial the viscount had experienced the most vehement accession of anxiety. He refused all food during the day, and he paced the floor of his cell all night. And well he might; for he knew that on that trial revelations would be made under oath that would not tend to whiten Lord Vincent's character.

On Thursday noon Mr. Bruce entered his cell.

"Is the trial—" began the viscount; but he could not get on; his intense emotion choked him.

"The trial is over; the jury brought in their verdict half an hour ago," replied the counsel gravely.

"And Frisbie is—For Heaven's sake speak!" gasped the viscount.

"Frisbie is convicted!" said the lawyer.

Lord Vincent, pale before, turned paler still as he sank into the chair and gazed upon the lawyer, who was greatly wondering at the excessive emotion of his client.

"When is the execution fixed to take place?"

"On Monday, of course."

"Is there—can there be any hope of a pardon for him?"

"Not the shadow of a hope."

"Or—of a commutation of his sentence?"

"It is madness to think of it."

"Is there no chance of a respite?"

"I tell you it is madness, and worse than madness, to imagine such a thing as a pardon, a commutation, or even a respite for that wretch. The crime brought home to him was one of the darkest dye—the base assassination of the girl that loved and trusted and was true to him. To fancy any mercy possible for that miscreant, except it be the infinite, all-embracing, all-pardoning mercy of God, is simply frenzy."

"And the execution is to take place on Monday. The time is very short," said the viscount, falling into a reverie.

The lawyer began to speak of the viscount's own affairs; he mentioned several circumstances connected with the viscount's case that had become known to himself only through the testimony of certain witnesses on Frisbie's trial, and he wished to consult the viscount upon them.

But Lord Vincent seemed to act very strangely; he was absent-minded, stupid, distracted—in fact altogether unfit for consultation with his counsel.

And so, after a few unsuccessful attempts to rouse him, gain his attention, and fix it upon the subject at issue, the lawyer arose, said that he would call again the next morning, and bowed and left the cell.

The shame the viscount suffered was in the knowledge of the dishonorable facts relating to himself that had been brought to light on Frisbie's trial; the great dread he felt was that Frisbie, at the near approach of death, would open his heart and make a full confession; and his horrible certainty was that such a confession was all that was wanted to ensure his own conviction.

Again on this Thursday night he could not sleep, but paced the narrow limits of his cell the whole night through, in unutterable agony of mind. Never was the appalling vision of himself in the shameful prison garb, working in chains, pointed out as an interesting object and gazed at by curious strangers, so awfully vivid as upon this night.

The next morning, when his old servant Cuthbert entered the cell as usual, he was frightened at his master's dreadful looks.

"Will I call a doctor to your lairdship?" inquired the old man.

"No, Cuthbert; I am not ill. I am only suffering for want of rest. I have not been able to sleep since Frisbie's arraignment. He is convicted, you know."

"Aye, me laird, I ken a' anent it. My brither Randy was on the jury, and he tauld me it a' ower a pot o' ale in the taproom o' the 'Highlander,' where I was resting while my horses fed," said the old man gravely.

A dark, crimson flush overspread the face of the viscount. Cuthbert had heard all about it. Cuthbert had heard, then, those disgraceful revelations concerning himself. He need not have blushed before Cuthbert. That loyal-hearted old servant could not have been brought to believe such evil of his beloved young master, as all that came to. And his next words proved this.

"There must 'a' been a deal o' fause swearing, me laird," he said.

The viscount looked up and caught at the words.

"Yes, Cuthbert, a great deal of false swearing, indeed, as far as I am concerned, in that testimony."

"Aye, me laird! I tauld them so in the taproom. There was a wheen idle loons collected there, drinking and smoking and talking anent the business o' their betters. And they were a' unco' free in their comments. But when they mentioned your lairdship's name in connection wi' sic infamy, I tauld them a' weel that they were a pack o' fause knaves to believe sic lees."

"Yes. The execution is to take place on Monday morning, Cuthbert."

"Aye, me laird. I hope the puir, sinfu' lad will mak' guid use o' the short time left him and repent o' a' his misdeeds, and seek his peace wi' his Maker," said the old man solemnly.

The viscount heaved a heavy sigh; a sigh that seemed laden with a weight of agony.

"Cuthbert," he said, "you know that I may not go to see the condemned man, being a prisoner myself; but you, being a fellow- servant, and at liberty, may be permitted to do so. I wish to charge you with a note to deliver to him; but you must deliver it secretly, Cuthbert; secretly, mind you."

"Yes, me laird."

The viscount sat down to his little table and wrote the following note:

"Frisbie: While there is life there is hope; therefore make no confession; for if you do, that confession will destroy your last possibility of pardon or commutation. "Vincent."

He folded and sealed this note and delivered it to Cuthbert, saying:

"Conceal it somewhere about your person, and go to the warden's office and ask leave to see your old fellow-servant, and no doubt you will get it. And when you see him deliver this note secretly, as I told you."

"Verra weel, me laird," said the old man, going and knocking on the door of the cell to be let out. The turnkey opened the door, released him, and locked it again. And the viscount, left alone, paced up and down the floor in unutterable distress of mind. An hour passed and then Cuthbert re-entered the cell, wearing a frightened visage.

"Well, Cuthbert, well! did you find an opportunity of delivering the note?"

"Yes, me laird, I did," said the old man hesitatingly.

"Secretly?"

"Y-yes, me laird!"

The viscount looked relieved of a great fear. He saw the great disturbance of his servant's face, but ascribed it to the effect of his interview with the condemned man, and sympathy for his awful position, and he inquired:

"How did Frisbie look, Cuthbert?"

"Like a ghaist; na less! pale as deeth; trembling like a leaf about to fa'! and waefully distraught in his mind!"

"Did he get an opportunity of reading my note while you were with him?"

"Oh, me laird, I maun just tell you! I hope there was na ony great secret in that same note."

The viscount started and stared wildly at the speaker, but then everything alarmed Lord Vincent now.

"What do you mean?" he asked:

"Oh, me laird! I watched my opportunity, and I gi'e him the note in secrecy, as your lairdship tauld me; and I stooped and whispered till him in his lugs to keep the note till he was his lane, and read it then. But the doitted fule, gude forgi'e me, didna seem to compreheend; but was loike ane dazed. He just lookit at me and then proceeded to open the note before my face. Whereupon the turnkey lad takit it out fra his hand, saying that the prisoner, being a condemned man, maunna receive ony faulded paper that hadna passit under the observation of the governor, because sic faulded packets might contain strychnine or other subtle poison. And sae he took possession o' your note, me laird, before the prisoner could read a word of it; and said he maun carry it to the governor whilk I suppose he did."

To see the consternation of the viscount was dreadful.

"Oh, Cuthbert, Cuthbert, the cowardice of that miserable wretch will ruin me!" he exclaimed bitterly.

"Oh, me laird, dinna rail at the puir sinfu' soul for cowardice. Sure mesel' would be a coward gin I had the waefu' woodie before my ees. 'Deed, me laird, and me heart is sair for the mischance o' the note."

"It cannot be mended now, Cuthbert."

The time was drawing near for the closing of the prison doors, and the old man took a dutiful leave of his master and departed.

On his way downstairs he was called into the warden's office, and while there he was severely reprimanded for conveying letters to the convict, and forbidden under pain of punishment to repeat the offense. The old man bore the rebuke very patiently, and at the lecture that was bestowed upon him he humbly bowed and took his leave.

This night the viscount, exhausted by long vigilance and fasting and by intense anxiety, threw himself upon his bed and slept for a few hours. The next morning, Saturday, in his restless trouble he arose early. And in the course of the day he questioned everyone who came into his cell concerning the state of mind of the condemned man.

Some could give him no news at all; others could tell him something; but they differed in their accounts of Frisbie—one saying that he had asked for the prison chaplain, who had gone in to him; a second that he was very contrite; a third that he was only terribly frightened; a fourth that he was as firm as a rock, declined to confess his guilt and persisted in declaring his innocence. The viscount endeavored to believe the last statement.

The miserable day passed without bringing anything more satisfactory to Lord Vincent. And the night that followed was a sleepless one to him.

Sunday came; the last day of life that was left to the wretched valet. On Sunday it was obligatory upon all the prisoners confined in that jail to attend divine service in the prison chapel. They had no choice in this matter; unless they were confined to their beds by illness they were obliged to go.

On this particular Sunday no prisoner felt disposed to place himself on the sick list. Quite the contrary. For, on the other hand, many prisoners who were really ill, in the infirmary, declared themselves well enough to get up and go to chapel.

The reason of their sudden zeal in the performance of their religious duties was simply this: The "condemned sermon," as it was called, was to be preached that day. And the condemned man, who was to be executed in the morning, was to be present under guard. And people generally have a morbid curiosity to gaze upon a man who is doomed to death.

Lord Vincent was ill enough to be exempt from the duty of appearing in the chapel, and haughty enough to recoil from mixing publicly with his fellow-prisoners; but he was intensely anxious to see Frisbie and judge for himself, from the man's appearance, whether he seemed likely to make a confession.

And so, when the turnkey whose duty it was to attend to this ward came around to unlock the doors and marshal the prisoners in order to march them to the chapel, Lord Vincent, without demur, fell into rank and went with them.

The chapel was small, and the prisoners present on this day filled it full. The set to which Lord Vincent belonged were marched in among the last. Consequently they sat at the lower end of the chapel.

Lord Vincent's height enabled him to look over the heads of most persons present. And he looked around for Frisbie. At length he found him.

The condemned pew was immediately before the pulpit, facing the preacher. In it sat Frisbie, unfettered, but guarded by two turnkeys, one of whom sat on each side of him. But Frisbie's back was towards Lord Vincent, and so the viscount could not possibly get a glimpse of the expression of his face.

He next looked to see if he could find the selfish vixen who had lured him to his ruin, and whom he now hated with all the power of hatred latent in his soul. But a partition eight feet high, running nearly the whole length of the chapel and stopping only within a few feet of the pulpit, separated the women's from the men's side of the church, so that even if she had been present he could not have seen her.

"The wages of sin is death."

Such was the text from which the sermon was preached to the prisoners that day. But the viscount heard scarcely one word of it. Intensely absorbed in his own reflections, he paid no attention to the services. At their close he bent his eyes again upon the form of Frisbie.

His perseverance was rewarded. As they arose to leave the chapel Frisbie also arose and turned around. And the viscount got a full view of his face—a pale, wild, despairing face.

"He is desperately frightened, if he is not penitent. That is the face of a man who, in the forlorn hope of saving his life, will deny his guilt until the rope is around his neck, and then, in the forlorn hope of saving his soul, confess his crime under the gallows," said the viscount to himself, as he was marched back to his cell.

In that the viscount wronged Frisbie. The great adversary himself is said to be not so black as he is painted.

That same night, that last solemn night of the criminal's life, the prison chaplain stayed with the wretched man. Mr. Godfree was a fervent Christian; one whose faith could move mountains; one who would never abandon a soul, however sinful, to sink into perdition while that soul remained in its mortal tenement. Such men seem to have a Christ-conferred power to save to the uttermost.

He kept close to Frisbie; he would not permit himself to be discouraged by the sinfulness, the cowardice, and the utter baseness of the poor wretch. He pitied him, talked to him, prayed with him.

With all his deep criminality Frisbie was certainly not hardened. He listened to the exhortations of the chaplain, he wept bitterly, and joined in the prayers. And in the silence of that night he made a full confession to the chaplain, with the request that it might be made public the next day.

He confessed the murder of Ailsie Dunbar; but he denied that the crime had been premeditated, as it had been made to appear at the trial. He killed her in a fit of passion, he said; and he had never known an hour's peace since. Remorse for the crime and terror for its consequences had made his life wretched. His master, Lord Vincent, he said, had been an eye-witness to the murder; but had withheld himself from denouncing him, because he wanted to use the power he had thus obtained to compel him to enter a conspiracy against Lady Vincent. And here followed a full account of the plot and its execution.

Frisbie went on to say that nothing but the terrors of death induced him to become a party to that base conspiracy against the honor of a noble lady, and that he had suffered almost as much remorse for his crimes against Lady Vincent as for his murder of Ailsie Dunbar.

All this Mr. Godfree took down in short-hand from the lips of the conscience-stricken man.

And then, as Frisbie expressed the desire to spend the remainder of the night in devotion, Mr. Godfree decided to remain with him. He read aloud to the convict portions of Scripture suited to his sad case; he prayed fervently with him for the pardon of his sins; and then he sang for him a consoling hymn.

Oh, strangely sounded that sacred song arising in the deep silence of the condemned cell. So the night passed there.

But how did it pass in the viscount's cell? Sleeplessly, anxiously, wretchedly, until long after midnight, when he fell asleep. He was awakened by a sound of sawing, dragging, and hammering, that seemed to be in the prison yard beneath his windows. It continued a long time, and effectually banished slumber from his weary eyes.

What could they be doing at that unusual hour? he asked himself. And he crept from his bed and peeped through the grated window. But the night was over-clouded and deeply dark from that darkness that precedes the dawn. He could see nothing, but he could hear the sound of voices amid the noise of work; although the words, at the distance his window was from the ground, were inaudible.

He lay down again no wiser than he had risen up. After an hour or two the noise ceased, and he dropped into that sleep of prostration that more resembles worn-out nature's swooning than healthy slumber.



CHAPTER XLVII.

THE EXECUTION.

What shall he be, ere night?—Perchance a thing O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing. —Byron.



It was broad daylight when the viscount was again awakened, and this time by the solemn tolling of the prison bell. He sprang out of bed and looked out of the window and recoiled in horror. There in the angle of the prison yard stood the gallows, grimly painted black. That was what the carpenters had been at work on all night.

And the tolling of the prison bell warned him that the last hour of the condemned man had come; that he was even now leaving his cell for the gallows. Lord Vincent staggered back and fell upon his bed. In the fate of Frisbie he seemed to feel a forewarning of the certain retribution that was lying in wait for himself.

There came a sound of footsteps along the passage. They paused before his cell. Someone unlocked the door. And, to the viscount's astonishment, the procession that was on its way to the gallows entered his presence. There was Frisbie, still unbound, but guarded by a half a dozen policemen and turnkeys, and attended by the undersheriff of the county, and the warden and the chaplain of the prison.

Lord Vincent stared in astonishment, wondering what brought them there; but he found no words in which to put the question.

The chaplain constituted himself the spokesman of the party.

"My lord, this unhappy man wishes to see you before he dies; and the sheriff has kindly accorded him the privilege," said Mr. Godfree.

Lord Vincent looked from the chaplain to the prisoner in perplexity and terror. What could the condemned man, in the last hour of his life, want with him?

Frisbie spoke:

"My lord, I am a dying man; but I could not meet death with guilty secrets on my soul. My lord, I have told everything, the whole truth about the death of poor Ailsie, and the plot against my lady. I could not help it, my lord. I could not leave the world with such wrong unrighted behind me. I could not so face my Creator. I have come to tell you this, my lord, and ask you to forgive me if, in doing this, I have been compelled to do you harm," said the man, speaking humbly, deprecatingly, almost affectionately.

"God forgive you, Frisbie, but you have ruined me!" was the somewhat strange reply of the viscount, as he turned away; for it seemed to those who heard him that he was asking the Lord to forgive the sinner, not for his sins, but for his confession of them.

The procession of death left the cell; the door was locked, and the viscount was alone again—alone, and in utter, irremediable despair.

He sat upon the side of the bed, his hands clasped and his chin dropped upon his breast until the bell of the prison chapel suddenly ceased to toll. Then he looked up. It was all over. The judicial tragedy had been enacted. And he arose and went to the grated window and looked out.

No, oh, Heaven, it was not all over! That group around the foot of the gallows; that cart and empty coffin; that shrouded and bound figure, convulsed and swaying in the air—blasted his sight. With a loud cry he dashed his hand up to his eyes to shut out the horrible vision, and fell heavily upon the floor. He lay there as one dead until the turnkey brought his breakfast. Then he got up and threw himself upon the bed. He eagerly drank the coffee that was brought to him, for his throat was parched and burning; but he could not swallow a mouthful of solid food.

"Bring me the afternoon paper as soon as it is out," he said to the turnkey, at the same time handing him a half-crown. The man bowed in silence and took his breakfast tray from the table and withdrew.

For some reason or other, perhaps from the fear of coming in contact with the preparations for the execution, Mrs. MacDonald did not present herself at the prison until nearly noon, so that the prison clock was actually on the stroke of twelve when old Cuthbert was admitted to his master's cell. On entering and beholding his master, the old man started and exclaimed in affright:

"Gude guide us, me laird, what has come over ye?"

"Nothing, Cuthbert, but want of rest. What is that you have in your hand?"

"The evening paper, me laird, that ane o' the lads gi'e me to bring your lairdship."

"Have you looked at it?" demanded the viscount anxiously, for he could not bear the idea of his old servant's reading the confession of Frisbie, that was probably in that very paper. "Have you looked at it, I ask you?" he repeated fiercely.

"Nay, no, me laird. I hanna e'en unfaulded it," said the old man simply, handing the paper.

The viscount seized it, threw himself on the chair, and opened it; but instead of reading the paper he looked up at old Cuthbert, who was standing there watching his master, with the deepest concern expressed in his venerable countenance.

"There, get about something; do anything! only don't stand there and stare at me, as if you had gone daft!" angrily exclaimed Lord Vincent.

The old man turned meekly, and began to put things straight in the cell. The viscount searched and found what he had feared to see. Ah! well might he dread the eye of old Cuthbert on him while he read those columns.

Yes, there it was; the account of the last hours of Alick Frisbie by the pen of the chaplain! the night in the cell, the scene of the execution, and, last of all, the confession of the culprit with all its shameful revelations. The viscount, with a feverish desire to see how deeply he himself was implicated, and to know the worst at once, read it all. How far he was implicated indeed! He was steeped to the very lips in infamy.

Why, the crime for which Frisbie had suffered death, the murder of that poor girl, committed in a paroxysm of passion, and repented in bitterness, and confessed in humility, seemed only a light offense beside the deep turpitude, the black treachery, of that long premeditated, carefully arranged plot against Lady Vincent, in which the viscount was the principal and the valet only the accomplice. The plot was revealed in all its base, loathsome, revolting details. The reader knows what these details were, for he has both seen them and heard of them. But can he imagine what it was to the viscount to have them discovered, published, and circulated?

When Lord Vincent had read this confession through he knew that all was forever over with him; he knew that at that very hour hundreds of people were reading that confession, shuddering at his guilt, scorning his baseness, and anticipating his conviction; he knew as well as if he had just heard the sentence of the court what that sentence would be. Penal servitude for life!

Deep groans burst from his bosom.

"Me laird, me laird, you are surely ill," said the old man anxiously, coming forward.

"Yes, Cuthbert, I am ill; in pain."

"Will I call a doctor?"

"No, Cuthbert; a doctor is not necessary; but attend to me a moment. They let you bring me anything you like unquestioned, do they not?"

"Aye, surely, me laird; for you are no under condemnation yet; but only waiting for your honorable acquittal."

"Cuthbert, I think you have a brother who is a chemist in town, have you not?"

"Ou, aye, me laird. Joost Randy, honest man."

The viscount sat down and wrote a line on a scrap of paper and gave it to the old man.

"Now, Cuthbert, take this to your brother. Be sure that you let no one see that bit of paper, and when you get the medicine that I have written for, put it in your bosom and don't take it out until you come back to me and we are alone. Now, Cuthbert, I hope you will be more canny over this affair than you were over the affair of the note I sent to Frisbie, which you permitted to fall into the hands of Philistines."

"Ah, puir Frisbie, puir lad! Gude hae mercy on him! I'll be carfu', me laird; though it was no me, but puir Frisbie himsel', that let the bit note drap. But I'll be carefu', me laird, though 'deed I dinna see the use o' concealment, sin' naebody ever interferes wi' onything I am bringing your lairdship."

"But they might interfere with this because it is medicine; for they might think that no one but the prison doctor has a right to give medicine here."

"Ou, aye—I comprehend, me laird, that sic might be the case where the medicament is dangerous. But will this be dangerous?"

"Why, no; it is nothing but simple laudanum. You know how good laudanum is to allay pain; and that there is no danger at all in it."

"No, me laird, gin ane doesna tak' an ower muckle dose."

"Certainly, if one does not take an overdose; but I have knowledge enough not to do that, Cuthbert."

"Surely, me laird. I'll gae noo and get it," replied the old man, taking up his hat, and knocking at the door to be released. The turnkey opened promptly, and Cuthbert departed on his errand.

When the viscount was left alone he resumed his restless pacing up and down the narrow limits of his cell and continued it for a while. Then he sat down to his little table, drew a sheet of paper before him, and began to write a letter.

He was interrupted by the unlocking of his cell door. Hastily he turned the paper with the blank side up and looked around. It was Mr. Bruce, his counsel. The lawyer looked unusually grave.

"Well," he said, as soon as he was left alone with his client, "the poor devil Frisbie is gone."

"Yes," responded the viscount, in a low voice.

"That is an ugly business of the confession."

"Very; the man was mad," said the viscount.

"Not unlikely; but I wish we may be able to persuade the jury that he was so; or else to induce the judges to rule his evidence out altogether."

"Can that be done? I mean can the judges be induced to rule out the confession as evidence?" inquired the viscount, sudden hope lighting up his hitherto dejected countenance.

"I fear not; I fear that our chance is to persuade the jury that the man was insane or mendacious—in a word, to impeach his rationality or his truthfulness, one or the other; we must decide which stand we are to take, which call in question."

"You might doubt either his sanity or his truth with equally good cause. He was always a fool and always a liar. When is the trial to come on?"

"That is just what I came to speak to you about. It is called for to-morrow at ten."

"To-morrow at ten?"

"Yes."

"Are you quite ready with the defense?"

"I was until this nasty business of Frisbie's confession turned up. I shall have to take a copy of the paper containing it home with me to-night, and study it, to see how I can pull it to pieces, and destroy its effects upon the jury. Have you got it here?" said Mr. Bruce, taking up the afternoon paper that lay upon the table.

"Yes."

"Have you done with it?"

"Yes."

The lawyer folded up the paper and put it in his pocket, and took his hat to depart.

"Mr. Bruce," said the viscount earnestly, "I am about to ask you a question, which I must entreat you to answer truthfully: What are the chances of my acquittal?"

The lawyer hesitated and changed color. The eyes of the viscount were fixed earnestly upon him. The eyes of the counsel fell.

"I see; you need not reply to my question. You think my chance a bad one," said Lord Vincent despondently.

"No, my lord; I did not mean to give you any such impression," said Mr. Bruce, recovering himself and his professional manners. "Before this troublesome confession of Frisbie's your chance was an excellent one—"

"But since?"

"Well, as I say, that is an ugly feature in the case; but I will do my best. And to say nothing of my own poor abilities, my colleagues, Stair and Drummond, are among the most successful barristers in the kingdom. They are always safe to gain a verdict where there is a verdict possible to be gained."

"Yes; I know that I have the best talent in the Three Kingdoms engaged in my defense," said the viscount; but he said it with a profound sigh.

"I will look in upon you again early to-morrow morning, before we go into court," said Mr. Bruce, as he bowed himself out.

This interview with his counsel had only tended to confirm the fears of the viscount and deepen his despondency, for, notwithstanding the guarded words of the lawyer, Lord Vincent saw that he had well-nigh given up all for lost. With a deep groan he sat down to the table and resumed the writing of his letter. He had not written many minutes when he was startled by the opening of the door. He hastily concealed his writing under a piece of blotting paper, and nervously turned to see who was the new intruder.

It was old Cuthbert, come back from his errand.

As soon as the door was closed upon them, the old man approached his master.

"Have you got the medicine, Cuthbert?"

"Aye, me laird," replied the servant, taking a bottle, rolled in a white paper, from his pocket, and handing it to his master. Some instinct made the viscount conceal the bottle in his own bosom.

"And here, me laird, are two letters the turnkey gave me to hand to your lairdship. He tauld me they had just been left at the warden's office for you," said Cuthbert, laying two formidable-looking epistles before his master.

Lord Vincent recognized in the superscription of the respective letters the handwriting of his counsel, Mr. Drummond and Mr. Stair. He hastily opened them one after the other. Several banknotes for a large amount rolled out of each. Surprised, he rapidly cast his eyes over each in turn. And his face turned to a deadly whiteness. The two letters were in effect the same. It seemed as though the writers, though not in partnership, had acted in concert on this occasion. They each respectfully begged leave to return their retaining fees and retire from the defense of the viscount. Since reading the confession of the convict, Alick Frisbie, they could not conscientiously act as counsel for Lord Vincent. Such was the purport, if not the exact words of the two letters.

"Me laird, me laird, ye are ill again!" said old Cuthbert, anxiously approaching his master.

"Yes; the pain has returned."

"Will ye no tak' some o' the medicine noo?"

"No, Cuthbert; not until I retire for the night," answered the viscount; but he withdrew the bottle from his bosom, and took it to the wash-basin and washed off the label and then threw it—the label—into the fire.

Cuthbert watched him, and wondered at this proceeding, but was too respectful to express surprise or make inquiries. And at this moment the turnkey entered with Lord Vincent's supper, that had been brought from the "Highlander"; and while he arranged it on the table he warned Cuthbert that the prison doors were about to be closed for the night, and that Mrs. MacDonald was waiting for him to drive her back to the castle. Upon hearing this the old man took a respectful leave of his master and departed. The turnkey remained in attendance upon the prisoner, kindly pressing him to eat.

But Lord Vincent swallowed only a little tea, and then pushed the food from him. The turnkey took away the service, locked the prisoner in for the night, and went to the warden's office.

"Weel, Donald, what is it, mon?" inquired the warden.

"An ye please, sir, I'm no easy in my mind about me Laird; Vincent," said the turnkey.

"Why, what ails me laird?"

"Why, sir, he is joost like ane distraught!"

"On, aye, it will be the confession o' the malefactor, Frisbie, that has fasht him; as weel it may!"

"He's war nor fasht; he looks joost likely to do himsel' a mischief," said Christie, shaking his head.

"Heeh! an that be sae we maun be carefu'! Are there any sharp-edged or pointed instruments in his cell?"

"Naught but his penknife. I was minded to bring it away, but I did na."

"Eh, then we will pay him a visit in his cell," said the warden, rising.

The turnkey led the way upstairs, and they entered the prisoner's cell. The viscount, who was sitting at the table with his head leaning upon his hand, looked up at this unusual visit. His face was deadly pale; but beyond that the warden noticed nothing amiss in his appearance, and that paleness was certainly natural in a prisoner suffering from confinement and anxiety. There is usually but scant ceremony observed between jailer and prisoner; nevertheless, in this case Auld Saundie Gra'ame actually apologized for his unseasonable visit.

"Me laird," he said, "I hae a verra unpleasant duty to perform here. Donald reports that ye are no that weel in your mind. And sic being the case, I maun, in regard to your ain guid and safety, see till the removal of a' edged tools and sic like dangerous weapons."

"Take away what you please; I have no objection," said the viscount indifferently.

Whereupon the warden and turnkey made a thorough search of the room; took away his razors and scissors from his dressing-case, and his penknife and his eraser from his writing desk.

"I shall take guid care of a' these articles, me laird, and return them to you safe, ance you are out o' these wa's," said the warden.

The viscount made no reply.

"And ye maun ken that I only remove them to prevent ye doin' yoursel' a mischief in your despondency," he continued.

The viscount smiled with a strange, derisive, triumphant expression; but still did not reply in words.

"And gin ye will heed guid counsel, ye will na gi'e yoursel' up to despair. Despair is an unco ill counselor, and the de'il is aye ready to tak' advantage of its presence. Guid nicht, me laird, and guid rest till ye," said Auld Saundie, as he withdrew himself and his subordinate from the cell, and locked his prisoner in finally for the night.

When he got back to his office he summoned all of his officers around him and spoke to them.

"Lads, I ha'e sair misgivings anent yon Laird Vincent. Ye maun be verra carefu'! Ye mauna let his mon Cuthbert tak' onything in, until it ha'e passed muster under me ain twa een. And you, Donald, maun aye gang in wi' Cuthbert or ony ither, gentle or simple, wha gaes to see me laird, and bide in the cell wi' them to watch that the visitor gi'es naething unlawfu' or daungerous to the prisoner. An ounce o' prevention, ye ken, lads, is better than a pund o' cure!"

And having given this order, the warden dismissed his subordinates to their various evening duties.

Yes, an ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure! But it is a pity the honest warden had not known when to apply the preventive agent.

Meanwhile, how had Faustina borne her imprisonment?

Why, excellently. Not that she had any patience, or courage, or fortitude, for she had not the least bit of either, or any other sort of heroism. But, as I said before, she was such a mere animal that, so long as she was made comfortable in the present, she felt no trouble on the score of the past or the future.

After her first fit of howling, weeping, and raging had exhausted itself, and she had seen that her violence had no other effect than to injure her cause, she resigned herself to circumstances and made herself as comfortable as possible in her cell. The expenditure of a few pounds had procured her everything she wanted, except her liberty; and that she did not feel the want of, as a creature with more soul might have done.

Any chance visitor who might have gone into Faustina's cell would have been astonished to see it fitted up as a tiny boudoir, and would have required to be told that there was no law to prevent a prisoner, unconvicted and waiting trial, from fitting up her cell as luxuriously as she pleased to do, if she had money to pay the expense and friends to take the trouble. And Faustina had freely spent money and freely used Mrs. MacDonald.

The floor of her cell was covered with crimson carpet, the festooned window with a lace curtain, and ornamented with a bouquet of flowers. A soft bed, with fine linen and warm coverlids, stood in one corner; a toilet table and mirror draped with lace, in another; a small marble washstand, with its china service, in a third; and a French porcelain stove in the fourth. A crimson-covered easy-chair and tiny stand filled up the middle of the small apartment.

And here, always well dressed, Faustina sat and read novels, or worked crochet, and gossiped with Mrs. MacDonald all day long. And here her epicurean meals, shared by her friend and visitor, were brought.

And here Mrs. MacDonald petted and soothed and flattered her with the hopes of a speedy deliverance.



CHAPTER XLVIII.

NEWS FOR CLAUDIA.

Oh, in their deaths, remember they are men, Strain not revenge to wish their tortures grievous. —Addison.



Death—even the most serene and beautiful death, coming to a good old man at the close of a long, beneficent life—is awful. Sudden and violent death, falling upon a strong young man in the midst of his sins and follies, is horrible. But perhaps the most appalling aspect under which the last messenger can appear is that of a deliberately inflicted judicial death.

Such a doom, pronounced upon the greatest sinner that ever lived, must move the pity of his bitterest enemy.

The family at Cameron Court formed a Christian household. They received the news of Frisbie's conviction with solemn, compassionate approbation. Justice approved the sentence; but mercy pitied the victim. And they passed the day of his execution in a Sabbath stillness.

They were glad when the day was over; glad when the late evening mail brought the afternoon papers from Banff, announcing that the tragedy was finished; glad to read there that the sinner had repented, confessed, and died, hoping in the mercy of the Father, through the atonement of sin.

Each one breathed a sigh of infinite relief to find that this sinner had not endangered his soul by impenitently rushing from man's temporal to God's eternal condemnation.

No one failed to see the immense importance of Frisbie's dying confession as evidence for the prosecution in the approaching trial of the Viscount Vincent and Faustina Dugald; or the fatal effect it must have upon the accused; yet no one spoke of it then and there. The day of stern retributive justice was not the time for unseemly triumph.

They separated for the night, gravely and almost sadly.

Claudia went up to her room, where her women, Katie and Sally, reinstated in her service, were in attendance. Sally, as usual, was silent and humble; Katie, equally as usual, talkative and dictatorial.

"And so de shamwally is hung at last! serbe him right; and I hopes it did him good; an' I wish it was my lordship an' de whited salt- peter along ob him!" she said, folding her arms ever her fat bosom and rolling herself from side to side with infinite satisfaction.

"For shame, Katie, to triumph so over a dead man! I should have thought a good Christian woman like you would have prayed for him before he died," said Claudia gravely.

"'Deed didn't I! An' I aint gwine to do it nuther. I aint gwine to bother my Hebbenly Master 'bout no sich grand vilyan! dere now!"

"Oh, Katie, Katie, I am afraid you are a great heathen!"

"Well, den, I just ruther be a heathen dan a whited salt-peter, or a shamwally, or a lordship either, if I couldn't do no more credit to it dan some," said Katie, having, as usual, the last word.

Claudia longed to be alone on this night; so she soon dismissed her attendants, closed up her room, put out all her lights, and lay down in darkness, solitude, and meditation.

Strange! but on this night her thoughts, and even her sympathies, were with Lord Vincent in his prison cell. Why should she think of him? Why should she pity him? She had never loved him, never even fancied that she loved him, even in the delusive days of courtship; or in the early days of marriage; and she had despised and shunned him in the miserable days of their estranged life at Castle Cragg. Why, then, as she lay there in the darkness, silence, and solitude of her own chamber, should her imagination hover over him? Why did she contemplate him in sorrow and in compassion?

Because in that dreary cell she saw the twofold man—the man that he ought to have been, and the man that he was; because she was his wife, and though she had never loved him, yet with better treatment she might have been won to do so; and finally, because she was a woman, and therefore full of sympathy with every sort of suffering.

She knew that the dying confession of Frisbie would seal Lord Vincent's fate. And she contemplated that fate as she had never done before.

Penal servitude.

Why it had seemed a mere, empty phrase until now. Now it was an appalling reality brimful of horror, even for the coarsest, dullest, and hardest criminal; but of how much more for him.

Lord Vincent in the prison garb, working in chains; inquired after by curious sight-seers; and pointed out to strangers as the felon- viscount.

She meditated on the effect all this would have on him, in the unspeakable misery it would inflict upon his vain, insolent, self- indulgent organization; and she marveled how he would ever endure it.

And she thought of the dishonor this would reflect upon herself as his wife. And she shrunk shudderingly away from the burning shame of living on, the wife of a felon.

In the deep compassion she could not but feel for him, and in the intense mortification she anticipated for herself, she earnestly wished that in some manner he might escape the degrading penalty of his crimes.

In these harassing thoughts and distressing feelings Claudia lay tossing upon her restless bed until long after midnight, when at length she dropped into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Now the circumstance that I am about to relate will be interpreted in a different manner by different people. Rationalists who pin their faith on Sir Walter Scott and his "Demonology" will say it was only an optical illusion; the incredulous, who believe in nothing, will declare it was but a dream; while Spiritualists, who follow Mr. Robert Dale Owen in his "Footprints on the Boundaries of Another World," will be ready to declare that it was the apparition of a spirit; I commit myself to no opinion on the subject.