"That's a question which here at least is absurd," she replied.
"You spoke once of that other country, abroad,--" he broke off,
shaking his head. "Who are you? I don't feel sure that I even
know your name as yet."
"I am, as you have been told, Josephine, Countess St. Auban. I am
French, Hungarian, American, what you like, but nothing to you. I
came to this country in the interest of Louis Kossuth. For that
reason I have been misunderstood. They think me more dangerous
than I am, but it seems I am honored by the suspicions of Austria
and America as well. I was a revolutionist yonder. I am already
called an abolitionist here. Very well. The name makes little
difference. The work itself--"
"Is that how you happened to be there on the boat?"
"I suppose so. I was a prisoner there. I was less than a chattel.
I was a piece of property, to be staked, to be won or lost at
cards, to be kidnapped, hand-cuffed, handled like a slave, it
seems. And you've the hardihood to stand here and ask me who I am!"
"I've only that sort of hardihood, Madam, which makes me ride
straight.
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