Often enough already (in our brief relations) this gentleman had caused my head to spin; no doubt but what for a moment he did so again now.  Here was the old fiction still maintained of my particular favour with his daughters, one of whom had been so good as laugh at me, while the other two had scarce deigned to remark the fact of my existence.  And now I was to ride with my lord to Glascow; I was to dwell with him in Edinburgh; I was to be brought into society under his protection!  That he should have so much good-nature as to forgive me was surprising enough; that he could wish to take me up and serve me seemed impossible; and I began to seek for some ulterior meaning.  One was plain.  If I became his guest, repentance was excluded; I could never think better of my present design and bring any action.  And besides, would not my presence in his house draw out the whole pungency of the memorial?  For that complaint could not be very seriously regarded, if the person chiefly injured was the guest of the official most incriminated.  As I thought upon this, I could not quite refrain from smiling.

“This is in the nature of a countercheck to the memorial?” said I.

“You are cunning, Mr. David,” said he, “and you do not wholly guess wrong; the fact will be of use to me in my defence.  Perhaps, however, you underrate my friendly sentiments, which are perfectly genuine.  I have a respect for you, Mr. David, mingled with awe,” says he, smiling.

“I am more than willing, I am earnestly desirous to meet your wishes,” said I.  “It is my design to be called to the bar, where your lordship’s countenance would be invaluable; and I am besides sincerely grateful to yourself and family for different marks of interest and of indulgence.  The difficulty is here.  There is one point in which we pull two ways.  You are trying to hang James Stewart, I am trying to save him.  In so far as my riding with you would better your lordship’s defence, I am at your lordship’s orders; but in so far as it would help to hang James Stewart, you see me at a stick.”

I thought he swore to himself.  “You should certainly be called; the bar is the true scene for your talents,” says he, bitterly, and then fell a while silent.  “I will tell you,” he presently resumed, “there is no question of James Stewart, for or against.  James is a dead man; his life is given and taken—­bought (if you like it better) and sold; no memorial can help—­no defalcation of a faithful Mr. David hurt him.  Blow high, blow low, there will be no pardon for James Stewart:  and take that for said!  The question is now of myself:  am I to stand or fall? and I do not deny to you that I am in some danger.  But will Mr. David Balfour consider why?  It is not because I have pushed the case unduly against James; for that, I am sure of condonation.  And it is not because I have sequestered Mr. David on a rock, though it will pass under that colour; but because I did not take the ready and plain path, to which I was pressed repeatedly, and send Mr. David to his grave or to the gallows.  Hence the scandal—­hence this damned memorial,” striking the paper on his leg.  “My tenderness for you has brought me in this difficulty.  I wish to know if your tenderness to your own conscience is too great to let you help me out of it?”