“The bitterness of ’t is now past,” she said.  “My lords, if it is your pleasure to gang on wi’ this matter, the weariest day will have its end at last.”

III.—­Jeannie’s Pilgrimage

David Deans and his eldest daughter found in the house of a cousin the nearest place of friendly refuge.  When he recovered from his long swoon, he was too feeble to speak when their hostess came in.

“Is all over?” said Jeannie, with lips pale as ashes.  “And is there no hope for her?”

“Nane, or next to nane,” said her cousin, Mrs. Saddletree; but added that the foreman of the jury had wished her to get the king’s mercy, and “nae ma about it.”

“But can the king gie her mercy?” said Jeannie.

“I well he wot he can, when he likes,” said her cousin and gave instances, finishing with Porteous.

“Porteous,” said Jeannie, “very true.  I forgot a’ that I culd mind maist.  Fare ye well, Mrs. Saddletree.  May ye never want a friend in the hour o’ distress.”

To Mrs. Saddletree’s protests she replied there was much to be done and little time to do it in; then, kneeling by her father’s bed, begged his blessing.  Instinctively the old man murmured a prayer, and his daughter saying, “He has blessed mine errand; it is borne in on my mind that I shall prosper,” left the room.  Mrs. Saddletree looked after her, and shook her head.  “I wish she binna roving, poor thing.  There’s something queer about a’ thae Deanes.  I dinna like folk to be sae muckle better than ither folk; seldom comes gude o’t.”

But she took good care of “the honest auld man,” until he was able to go to his own home.

Effie was roused from her state of stupefied horror by the entrance of Jeannie who, rushing into the cell, threw her arms round her neck.

“What signifies coming to greet ower me,” said poor Effie, “when you have killed me?  Killed me, when a word from your mouth would have saved me.”

“You shall not die,” said Jeannie, with enthusiastic firmness.  “Say what you like o’ me, only promise, for I doubt your proud heart, that you winna’ harm yourself?  I will go to London and beg your pardon from the king and queen.  They shall pardon you, and they will win a thousand hearts by it!”

She soon tore herself from her sister’s arms and left the cell.  Ratcliffe followed her, so impressed was he by her “spunk,” he advised her as to her proceedings, to find a friend to speak for her to the king—­the Duke of Argyle, if possible—­and wrote her a line or two on a dirty piece of paper, which would be useful if she fell among thieves.  Jeannie then hastened home to St. Leonard’s Crags, and gave full instructions to her usual assistant, concerning the management of domestic affairs and arrangements for her father’s comfort in her absence.  She got a loan of money from the Laird of Dumbiedikes, and set off without losing a moment on her walk to London.  On her way she stopped to bid adieu to her old friend Reuben Butler, whom she had expected to see at the court yesterday.  She knew, of course, that he was still under some degree of restraint—­he had been obliged to find bail not to quit his usual residence, in case he were wanted as a witness—­ but she had hoped he would have found means to be with his old friend on such a day.