"The man is an American."
"So are you," cried the German, surprised at the dark frown that darkened on Leslie's brow. "Is that a disgrace?"
"I suppose not. Yet I will have nothing to do with my countrymen," said the artist, sternly.
Carl gave vent to a low whistle.
"Ye gods! An American—born under the shadow of the eagle's wing of liberty, a citizen of a land the most patriotic upon earth—coolly repudiating his country! I never expected to see such a novel sight under the sun!"
"You mistake me, Carl," said Leslie Dane, a little vexed. "I do not repudiate my native land. I revere her as the noblest country upon earth, but I am from henceforth an exile, self-expatriated from her shores, and I do not wish to meet anyone who can recall memories I would fain forget."
"You are a strange fellow, Leslie, I cannot understand your moods."
"You do not? Shall I explain, Carl? Listen, then."
Carl looked up into the dark face with its look of proud grief mingled with bitterness.
"No, no; forgive my levity," he said; "I would not intrude upon your secret, dear friend. Let it rest."