John laughed.
“Have I not? Well, it is John Beaton. Did you ever hear it before?”
“No, I have never heard it.”
“And you have not told me yours. It is rather queer, too. The name is usually the first exchange made between men meeting as strangers, when they wish to become friends.”
There was no answer to this. “Well?” said John, after a little.
“I have been thinking—I mean I call myself William Leslie.”
“And is that your name?” asked John gravely.
“Yes, it is my name. It is not all of my name. But what does it matter in this new country? My name is nothing to any one.”
“But it is something to yourself. I havena a fine name, but it was my father’s before me, and my grandfather’s, and I wouldna change it to be called a lord,” said John gravely. “My lad, I hope you have done nothing to make you afraid or ashamed to own your name?”
“I have done nothing that I wouldna do again, ten times over, if it would give me my revenge!” he cried, raising himself up, while his eyes flashed angrily. “It is not for shame, but for safety that I wish to have my name forgotten, and—for Allie’s sake.”