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.