"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.