“Tell him,” said Jeannie hastily, “I will certainly come”; and to all Butler’s entreaties and expostulations would give no explanation.  They were recalled—­“ben the house,” to use the language of the country—­by the loud tones of David Deans, and found the poor old man half frantic between grief and zealous ire against proposals to employ a lawyer on Effie’s behalf, they being, all, in his opinion, carnal, crafty self-seekers.

But when the poor old man, fatigued with the arguments and presence of his guests, retired to his sleeping apartment, the Laird of Dumbiedikes said he would employ his own man of business, and Butler set off instantly to see Effie herself, and try to get her to give him the information that she had refused to everyone.

“Farewell, Jeannie,” said he.  “Take no rash steps till you hear from me.”

Butler was at once recognised by the turnkey when he presented himself at the Tolbooth, and detained as having been connected with the riots the night before.  One of the prisoners had recognised Robertson, the leader of the rioters, and seen him trying to persuade Effie Deans to escape and to save himself from the gallows, being a well-known thief and prison-breaker, gave information, hoping, as he candidly said, to obtain the post of gaoler himself.

It became obvious that the father of Effie’s child and the slayer of Porteous were one and the same person, and on hearing from Butler, who had no reason to conceal his movements, of the stranger he had met on the hill, the procurator fiscal, otherwise the superintendent of police, with a strong body-guard, interrupted Jeannie’s meeting with the stranger that night; but he had made her understand that her sister’s life was in her hands before, hearing men approaching, he plunged into the darkness and was lost to sight.

II.—­Effie’s Trial

Soon afterwards, Ratcliffe, the prisoner who had recognised Robertson, received a full pardon, and becoming gaoler, was repeatedly applied to, to procure an interview between the sisters; but the magistrates had given strict orders to the contrary, hoping that they might, by keeping them apart, obtain some information respecting the fugitive.  But Jeannie knew nothing of Robertson, except having met him that night by appointment to give her some advice respecting her sister’s concern, the which, she said, was betwixt God and her conscience.  And Effie was equally silent.  In vain they offered, even a free pardon, if she would confess what she knew of her lover.

At length the day was fixed for Effie’s trial, and on the preceding evening Jeannie was allowed to see her sister.  Even the hard-hearted turnkey could not witness the scene without a touch of human sympathy.

“Ye are ill, Effie,” were the first words Jeannie could utter.  “Ye are very ill.”

“O, what wad I gie to be ten times waur, Jeannie!” was the reply.  “O that I were lying dead at my mother’s side!”