"Weel, Donald, what is it, mon?" inquired the warden.
"An ye please, sir, I'm no easy in my mind about me Laird; Vincent," said the turnkey.
"Why, what ails me laird?"
"Why, sir, he is joost like ane distraught!"
"On, aye, it will be the confession o' the malefactor, Frisbie, that has fasht him; as weel it may!"
"He's war nor fasht; he looks joost likely to do himsel' a mischief," said Christie, shaking his head.
"Heeh! an that be sae we maun be carefu'! Are there any sharp-edged or pointed instruments in his cell?"
"Naught but his penknife. I was minded to bring it away, but I did na."
"Eh, then we will pay him a visit in his cell," said the warden, rising.
The turnkey led the way upstairs, and they entered the prisoner's cell. The viscount, who was sitting at the table with his head leaning upon his hand, looked up at this unusual visit. His face was deadly pale; but beyond that the warden noticed nothing amiss in his appearance, and that paleness was certainly natural in a prisoner suffering from confinement and anxiety. There is usually but scant ceremony observed between jailer and prisoner; nevertheless, in this case Auld Saundie Gra'ame actually apologized for his unseasonable visit.