Her confession， as filleted from the Memorial by the Pitcairn Trials， is as follows：

    I think I shall hear presently the pitiful and fearful cries which he gave when he was strangled！ And that vile sin which I committed in murdering my own husband is yet before me. When that horrible and fearful sin was done I desired the unhappy man who did it （for my own part， the Lord knoweth I laid never my hands upon him to do him evil； but as soon as that man gripped him and began his evil turn， so soon as my husband cried so fearfully， I leapt out over my bed and went to the Hall， where I sat all the time， till that unhappy man came to me and reported that mine husband was dead）， I desired him， I say， to take me away with him； for I feared trial； albeit flesh and blood made me think my father's moen [interest] at Court would have saved me！

    Well， we know what the Laird of Dunipace did about it.

    ``As to these women who was challenged with me，'' the confession goes on，

    I will also tell my mind concerning them. God forgive the nurse， for she helped me too well in mine evil purpose； for when I told her I was minded to do so she consented to the doing of it； and upon Tuesday， when the turn was done， when I sent her to seek the man who would do it， she said， `` I shall go and seek him； and if I get him not I shall seek another！ And if I get none I shall do it myself！''

    Here the writer of the Memorial interpolates the remark， ``This the nurse also confessed， being asked of it before her death.'' It is a misfortune， equalling that of the lack of information regarding the character of Jean's husband， that there is so little about the character of the nurse. She was， it is to be presumed， an older woman than her mistress， probably nurse to Jean in her infancy. One can imagine her （the stupid creature！） up in arms against Kincaid for his treatment of her ``bonny lamb，'' without the sense to see whither she was urging her young mistress； blind to the consequences， but ``nursing her wrath'' and striding purposefully from Warriston to Holyroodhouse on her strong plebeian legs， not once but several times， in search of Weir！ What is known in Scotland as a `limmer，' obviously.

    ``As for the two other women，'' Jean continues，

    I request that you neither put them to death nor any torture， because I testify they are both innocent， and knew nothing of this deed before it was done， and the mean time of doing it； and that they knew they durst not tell， for fear； for I compelled them to dissemble. As for mine own part， I thank my God a thousand times that I am so touched with the sense of that sin now： for I confess this also to you， that when that horrible murder was committed first， that I might seem to be innocent， I laboured to counterfeit weeping； but， do what I could， I could not find a tear.

    Of the whole confession that last is the most revealing touch. It is hardly just to fall into pity for Jean simply because she was young and lovely. Her crime was a bad one， much more deliberate than many that， in the same age， took women of lower rank in life than Jean to the crueller end of the stake. In the several days during which she was sending for Weir， but failing to have speech with him， she had time to review her intention of having her husband murdered. If the nurse was the prime mover in the plot Jean was an unrelenting abettor. It may have been in her calculations before， as well as after， the deed itself that the interest of her father and family at Court would save her， should the deed have come to light as murder. Even in these days， when justice is so much more seasoned with mercy to women murderers， a woman in Jean's case， with such strong evidence of premeditation against her， would only narrowly escape the hangman， if she escaped him at all. But that confession of trying to pretend weeping and being unable to find tears is a revelation. I can think of nothing more indicative of terror and misery in a woman than that she should want to cry and be unable to. Your genuinely hypocritical murderer， male as well as female， can always work up self-pity easily and induce the streaming eye.

    It is from internal evidences such as this that one may conclude the repentance of Jean Livingstone， as shown in her confession， to have been sincere. There was， we are informed by the memorialist， nothing maudlin in her conduct after condemnation. Once she got over her first obduracy， induced， one would imagine， by the shock of seeing the realization of what she had planned but never pictured， the murder itself， and probably by the desertion of her by her father and kindred， her repentance was ``cheerful'' and ``unfeigned.'' They were tough-minded men， those Scots divines who ministered to her at the last， too stern in their theology to be misled by any pretence at finding grace. And no pretty ways of Jean's would have deceived them. The constancy of behaviour which is vouched for， not only by the memorialist but by other writers， stayed with her until the axe fell.

    III

    ``She was but a woman and a bairn， being the age of twenty-one years，'' says the Memorial. But， ``in the whole way， as she went to the place of execution， she behaved herself so cheerfully as if she had been going to her wedding， and not to her death. When she came to the scaffold， and was carried up upon it， she looked up to ``the Maiden'' with two longsome looks， for she had never seen it before.''

    The minister-memorialist， who attended her on the scaffold， says that all who saw Jean would bear record with himself that her countenance alone would have aroused emotion， even if she had never spoken a word. ``For there appeared such majesty in her countenance and visage， and such a heavenly courage in her gesture， that many said， `That woman is ravished by a higher spirit than a man or woman's！' ''

    As for the Declaration and Confession which， according to custom， Jean made from the four corners of the scaffold， the memorialist does not pretend to give it verbatim. It was， he says， almost in a form of words， and he gives the sum of it thus：

    The occasion of my coming here is to show that I am， and have been， a great sinner， and hath offended the Lord's Majesty； especially， of the cruel murdering of mine own husband， which， albeit I did not with mine own hands， for I never laid mine hands upon him all the time that he was murdering， yet I was the deviser of it， and so the committer. But my God hath been always merciful to me， and hath given me repentance for my sins； and I hope for mercy and grace at his Majesty's hands， for his dear son Jesus Christ's sake. And the Lord hath brought me hither to be an example to you， that you may not fall into the like sin as I have done. And I pray God， for his mercy， to keep all his faithful people from falling into the like inconvenient as I have done！ And therefore I desire you all to pray to God for me， that he would be merciful to me！

    One wonders just how much of Jean's own words the minister-memorialist got into this， his sum of her confession. Her speech would be coloured inevitably by the phrasing she had caught from her spiritual advisers， and the sum of it would almost unavoidably have something of the memorialist's own fashion of thought. I would give a good deal to know if Jean did actually refer to the Almighty as ``the Lord's Majesty，'' and hope for ``grace at his Majesty's hands.'' I do not think I am being oversubtle when I fancy that， if Jean did use those words， I see an element of confusion in her scaffold confession——the trembling confusion remaining from a lost hope. As a Scot， I have no recollection of ever hearing the Almighty referred to as ``the Lord's Majesty'' or as ``his Majesty.'' It does not ring naturally to my ear. Nor， at the long distance from which I recollect reading works of early Scottish divines， can I think of these forms being used in such a context. I may be——I very probably am——all wrong， but I have a feeling that up to the last Jean Livingstone believed royal clemency would be shown to her， and that this belief appears in the use of these unwonted phrases.

    However that may be， Jean's conduct seems to have been heroic and unfaltering. She prayed， and one of her relations or friends brought ``a clean cloath'' to tie over her eyes. Jean herself had prepared for this operation， for she took a pin out of her mouth and gave it into the friend's hand to help the fastening. The minister-memorialist， having taken farewell of her for the last time， could not bear the prospect of what was about to happen. He descended from the scaffold and went away. ``But she，'' he says，

    as a constant saint of God， humbled herself on her knees， and offered her neck to the axe， laying her neck， sweetly and graciously， in the place appointed， moving to and fro， till she got a rest for her neck to lay in. When her head was now made fast to ``the Maiden'' the executioner came behind her and pulled out her feet， that her neck might be stretched out longer， and so made more meet for the stroke of the axe； but she， as it was reported to me by him who saw it and held her by the hands at this time， drew her legs twice to her again， labouring to sit on her knees， till she should give up her spirit to the Lord！ During this time， which was long， for the axe was but slowly loosed， and fell not down hastily， after laying of her head， her tongue was not idle， but she continued crying to the Lord， and uttered with a loud voice those her wonted words， ``Lord Jesus， receive my spirit！ O Lamb of God， that taketh away the sins of the world， have mercy upon me！ Into thy hand， Lord， I commend my soul！'' When she came to the middle of this last sentence， and had said， ``Into thy hand， Lord，'' at the pronouncing of the word ``Lord'' the axe fell； which was diligently marked by one of her friends， who still held her by the hand， and reported this to me.