the virtues of the soldier might sustain themselves."

There came a kind of Highland snuffle out of the man that raised my
dander strangely.

"Well, Mr. Macgregor," said I, "I understand the main thing for a
soldier is to be silent, and the first of his virtues never to
complain."

"You have my name, I perceive"--he bowed to me with his arms
crossed--"though it's one I must not use myself. Well, there is a
publicity--I have shown my face and told my name too often in the
beards of my enemies. I must not wonder if both should be known to
many that I know not."

"That you know not in the least, sir," said I, "nor yet anybody
else; but the name I am called, if you care to hear it, is
Balfour."

"It is a good name," he replied, civilly; "there are many decent
folk that use it. And now that I call to mind, there was a young
gentleman, your namesake, that marched surgeon in the year '45 with
my battalion."

"I believe that would be a brother to Balfour of Baith," said I,
for I was ready for the surgeon now.

"The same, sir," said James More. "And since I have been fellow-
soldier with your kinsman, you must suffer me to grasp your hand."