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!"