“If you mean anything by those words, I must tell you I consider them unfit for a good subject; and were they spoke publicly I should make it my business to take note of them,” said he. “You do not appear to me to recognise the gravity of your situation, or you would be more careful not to pejorate the same by words which glance upon the purity of justice. Justice, in this country, and in my poor hands, is no respecter of persons.” “You give me too great a share in my own speech, my lord,” said I. “I did but repeat the common talk of the country, which I have heard everywhere, and from men of all opinions as I came along.” “When you are come to more discretion you will understand such talk in not to be listened to, how much less repeated,” says the Advocate. “But I acquit you of an ill intention. That nobleman, whom we all honour, and who has indeed been wounded in a near place by the late barbarity, sits too high to be reached by these aspersions. The Duke of Argyle—you see that I deal plainly with you—takes it to heart as I do, and as we are both bound to do by our judicial functions and the service of his Majesty; and I could wish that all hands, in this ill age, were equally clean of family rancour. But from the accident that this is a Campbell who has fallen martyr to his duty—as who else but the Campbells have ever put themselves foremost on that path?—I may say it, who am no Campbell—and that the chief of that great house happens (for all our advantages) to be the present head of the College of Justice, small minds and disaffected tongues are set agog in every changehouse in the country; and I find a young gentleman like Mr. Balfour so ill-advised as to make himself their echo.” So much he spoke with a very oratorical delivery, as if in court, and then declined again upon the manner of a gentleman. “All this apart,” said he. “It now remains that I should learn what I am to do with you.” “I had thought it was rather I that should learn the same from your lordship,” said I. “Ay, true,” says the Advocate. “But, you see, you come to me well recommended. There is a good honest Whig name to this letter,” says he, picking it up a moment from the table. “And—extra-judicially, Mr. Balfour—there is always the possibility of some arrangement, I tell you, and I tell you beforehand that you may be the more upon your guard, your fate lies with me singly. In such a matter (be it said with reverence) I am more powerful than the King’s Majesty; and should you please me—and of course satisfy my conscience—in what remains to be held of our interview, I tell you it may remain between ourselves.” “Meaning how?” I asked. “Why, I mean it thus, Mr. Balfour,” said he, “that if you give satisfaction, no soul need know so much as that you visited my house; and you may observe that I do not even call my clerk.”