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.