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: