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?"