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." He shook hands with me long and tenderly, beaming on me the while as though he had found a brother.
"Ah!" says he, "these are changed days since your cousin and I heard the balls whistle in our lugs." "I think he was a very far-away cousin," said I, drily, "and I ought to tell you that I never clapped eyes upon the man." "Well, well," said he, "it makes no change.

And you--I do not think you were out yourself, sir--I have no clear mind of your face, which is one not probable to be forgotten." "In the year you refer to, Mr.Macgregor, I was getting skelped in the parish school," said I.
"So young!" cries he.