A deep sigh was the only answer.
"Are the folk civil to ye, Effie?—it's my duty to inquire."
"Very civil, sir," said Effie, compelling herself to answer, yet hardly knowing what she said.
"And your victuals," continued Sharpitlaw, in the same condoling tone,—"do you get what you like?—or is there onything you would particularly fancy, as your health seems but silly?"
"It's a' very weel, sir, I thank ye," said the poor prisoner, in a tone how different from the sportive vivacity of those of the Lily of St. Leonard's!—"it's a' very gude—ower gude for me."
"He must have been a great villain, Effie, who brought you to this pass," said Sharpitlaw.
The remark was dictated partly by a natural feeling, of which even he could not divest himself, though accustomed to practise on the passions of others, and keep a most heedful guard over his own, and partly by his wish to introduce the sort of conversation which might, best serve his immediate purpose. Indeed, upon the present occasion, these mixed motives of feeling and cunning harmonised together wonderfully; for, said Sharpitlaw to himself, the greater rogue Robertson is, the more will be the merit of bringing him to justice. "He must have been a great villain, indeed," he again reiterated; "and I wish I had the skelping o' him."
"I may blame mysell mair than him," said Effie; "I was bred up to ken better; but he, poor fellow,"—(she stopped).
"Was a thorough blackguard a' his life, I dare say," said Sharpitlaw. "A stranger he was in this country, and a companion of that lawless vagabond, Wilson, I think, Effie?"
"It wad hae been dearly telling him that he had ne'er seen Wilson's face."