"My name is William Wallace," answered William, with a beating heart. "I never had the honour to see you until to-day." "Wallace? Wallace?" said the old gentleman, musing. "No---my friend's name was not Wallace; we were both of Monro's regiment--his name was Seaton; but the likeness was so strong that you must excuse me for addressing you." William's heart sank--he remained silent for a few minutes--his face was alternately flushed and pale--a new train of ideas crowded upon his mind--he wished to speak, but he could not find utterance--wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and went through the other forms of confusion and bashfulness. His new acquaintance looked upon him, much surprised at his emotion; and, with an energy bordering on violence, seized his hand. "Young man," said he, "that ring was once the property of my friend: how came you by it? He valued it above all things, nor would he have parted with it but with life. At this moment, I almost think the last long twenty years of my life a dream, and that I am still a captain in Monro's regiment. You must come and dine with me, and explain how this came into your possession." "With pleasure," replied William. "It is a sad account, I have to give, and I am most impatient to learn something of its possessor. Alas! I fear I must feel too great an interest in him." "The early friend I allude to," replied the old man, "was an honour to his country. A braver or more generous heart, no officer in the army possessed. This you will acknowledge when I have told you all. Alas! poor Seaton! shall I ever see you again?" Thus conversing, they reached the house of Colonel Gordon, one of the principal flats of a house in the High Street. After they had dined, William gave a distinct account of his birth and the death of his mother, and a modest outline of himself. His hearer listened to him with the greatest interest, only interrupting him at the account of his mother's death by an exclamation of horror.