Years afterwards, when Sir Patrick was Earl of Marchmont, Chancellor of
Scotland, and President of the Privy Council, it was his lot to have to
try for his life a certain Captain Burd. And during the trial there came
back to him like a flash the old days when, in company with another
wayfarer, he tramped the long French roads, unwinding themselves like
white ribbons before him, between the avenues of stiff, tall, silvery
poplars on to the flat, windmill-dotted Dutch country, with the
brown-sailed boats that seemed to sail along the fields. And here, in
Captain Burd, he recognised the companion of those often weary, often
hungry days, when pockets were empty, fortunes at dead-low tide, and
Scotland and wife and children very far away. In public the Chancellor
treated his old friend with severity, but arranged with his son, Sir
Andrew Home, then a young lawyer, to see Captain Burd alone. Timidly and
nervously, with downcast eyes, the poor man repeated the tale to which
the Chancellor had already listened. In silence he heard it again, and
then: "Do you not know me?" he asked, smiling.
"God's wounds! Dr. Wallace!" cried Captain Burd, and fell with tears of
joy on the neck of the Chancellor, who was readily and gladly able to
prove the innocence of his old companion.
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