—as to make this groom the confidant
of her sorrows and her humiliation, we may
well believe through what a maddening ordeal
and trial she had passed; we may well believe,
too, that after this all else would be easy. The
groom's assurances and offers of faithful devotion
struck the last blow. Her pride and reserve had
departed, and her pity and her conscience had
gone with them; and in a few moments they were
speaking openly of the laird's murder, and consulting
as to the best manner of committing it.
Whatever was to be done must be done effectually.
It would be no good for the hand to
tremble, or the nerve to quiver: as they had
made up their minds to go so far, they must
go farther, and make an end of the whole matter.
Was life to be endured under such conditions as
those in which she lived now, and could he,
though only a horse-boy, stand by and see her
wronged? This fearful consultation strengthened
both in their evil thoughts; and it was finally
decided on that John Kincaid should be murdered
that night, and by the groom. Then
Robert was taken to a "laich seller" (low
cellar) "quhairin he abaid quhill mydnycht;"
and the lady had to compose herself to the time
as best she might.

It was no light thing she had undertaken to
do. Lax as were the times, and full of violence
and cruelty, such a deed as this would not go
unpunished; and between the present hours and
midnight, when her husband's life was to be
taken, she had full leisure to calculate all the
chances of detection that lay before her. She
had full leisure, too, to call back to her heart
such feelings of pity and patience and womanly
tenderness as might have once been there; to
extenuate what was vilest in him, to be severe
to what was worst in herself; to rouse her better
angel, and resist the fiend that was tempting
her; to waken up her slumbering conscience,
which pride, and passion, and hatred, and revenge
had set so fast to sleep. How those
weary hours stole on we are not told; but night
came at last, and the lady and her husband left
the hall, and went to their own chamber—the
murderer lying in the darkness beyond. What
a time of fearful waiting and watching that
must have been! How she must have listened
for the muffled footfall, till every faintest noise
seemed to carry murder in its echo; how that
thick beating of her heart must have sent the
blood rushing through her brain, till every sound
and sense grew wild and confused; how sick
with dread and fear and passionate desire she
must have been, waiting and watching, till the
terrible footfall came!

One by one the heavy moments passed, and
then Robert Weir stole forth out of the "laich
cellar" where he had hidden. He passed
noiselessly through the hall on to the sleeping-room,
"quhair the said vmq le Johnne was lyand
in his bed takand the nychtis rest." The noise
awoke the laird, and he sat up, leaning over the
side of the bed to see what it was. Then Robert
rushed on him, and struck him in the neck a
heavy blow, which brought him to the ground
with a terrible cry. Jeane was not so hardened
that she could lie there and see her husband
murdered before her eyes. She fled into the
hall, where she sat all trembling and dismayed,
while the cruel work went on in her own sleeping-room,
and by the bed where she had lain.
She heard her husband's cries, as Robert Weir
struck him again and again with his fists and
feet, and then all was still; the murderer
grasped him tightly by the throat, and held him
thus until he died.

Jeane still sat in the hall, when the groom,
flushed and breathless, came to her, and told her
that the end had come, the deed was done, and
she was free for ever from the brutality and
passion that had so long oppressed her. And
now what they must do—at least what he must
do—is to provide for his own safety. She must
stay where she was, he said (for she wanted to
go with him). "You shall tarry still, and if
this matter come not to light, you shall say 'he
died in the gallery,' and I shall return to my
master's service; but if it be known I shall fly,
and take the cryme on me, and none dare pursue
you." But they reckoned without their host.
Their scheme failed, as so often schemes of
like nature fail. The rank of the murdered
man, and the situation of the property—Warriston
being only one mile from Edinburgh—gave
the thing swift and unusual publicity. Weir
certainly escaped, for a time, but Lady Warriston
and the nurse were taken "red-handed," and
put upon their trial forthwith. Indeed, so
hurried were all the proceedings, that some of
the most necessary formalities were dispensed
with, such as serving the "dittay" and a few
minor matters. There seems to have been no
attempt at defence, and the assize brought
in both the culprits "fylit" of the murder.
Short space for shrift or penitence was given
to Jeane: for, on the morning of the fifth of
July, the terrible last act was played, and a
shameful death expiated the guilt of a shameful
crime.

The family at Dunipace made no effort for
Jeane. She says, in her confessions, that flesh
and blood made her to think that her father's
"moen" (moyen, influence, interest) at court
might have saved her; but the laird of Dunipace
had no care for a child who had so disgraced
them all; and what "moen" he had was
turned to hurrying on the day and hour for her
execution, that so the populace might have
nothing to gape at, and the disgrace might pass
as lightly as possible. Early on Friday morning,
and quite before the great city was astir,
the young widow, full of penitence and religion,
was beheaded in the Canongate. Her conduct
seems to have disarmed even the justice of
criticism, and to have gained for her commendations
which set out of sight the whole heinousness
of her offences. An old "tractate" written
by Mr. James Balfour, is full of her praises: the
author calls her "a constant saint of God," and
speaks of her on the morning of her execution
as being "ravished with a higher spirit than a
man or woman's," though she was "but a