“Hugh Maxwell, captain.”
“God bless me, sir! But this is not the first time I have heard your name, nor seen you, if you'll excuse my saying it,” he said, most earnestly.
“Like enough. What is your name?”
“Neil Murray, sir.”
“And a very good name it is; but I cannot say I recall it.”
“But you will remember the march to Derby, sir, and Lord George?” he asked, eagerly.
“I am never likely to forget it. Were you there?”
“Where else would I be when my grandfather was own cousin to his?”
“Then I suppose there's no treason now in shaking hands over so old a story, Neil?” I said, extending my hand, which he grasped heartily, and relations were established between us.
He then turned to the priest. “Your name, your reverence?”