"An American!" roared the ex-brigand. "An American!" Upon this he burst into a perfect thunder-peal of laughter. The laughter came forth, peal after peal, in long and deafening explosions, till the house vibrated with the sound, and till at last the ex-brigand sank exhausted into the Glastonbury chair. "An American!" he cried; "and think of me--ha, ha, ha!--asking you if you spoke every language in the world--ha, ha, ha!--but the right one--ha, ha, ha!--and speaking every language--ha, ha, ha!--but my own--ha, ha, ha! And to think of us two Americans--ha, ha, ha!--after trying Italian--ha, ha, ha I--and French, and Spanish, and German--ha, ha, ha!--rushing into gestures!--ha, ha, ha!--gestures!--only think, Laura--ha, ha, ha! He and I--ha, ha, ha!--spending an hour in making signs to each other--ha, ha, ha!--but 'pon my life it's too bad in me to be howling out in this fashion, my poor lad, when you're in the midst of such deep affliction. I swear I'm sorry. I forget myself." "But I'm not in any affliction at all," said David. "What! What's that?" cried the ex-brigand. "Didn't you lose your father?" "No." "But your father, and mother, and the rest of them--" "No," said David. "You didn't quite understand what I wanted to say." And he then proceeded to tell his story in plain English. He was listened to with deep attention; but as his story turned out to be so different from the first report of the ex-brigand, the lady stole an arch look at her husband, and her eyes fairly danced with fun and merriment. But the ex-brigand bore it admirably; and as David ended, and showed himself to be in no such deep affliction as had been supposed, he once more burst forth in a fresh peal of riotous laughter. Upon this David ventured to hint at his own late fears, and on being questioned by the lady he confessed frankly what had been the interpretation that he put upon the signs of the ex-brigand. "Well," said that worthy, "I'm not a brigand at all. I'm an artist." "I'm sure I don't wonder, Walter," said the lady. "You dress yourself up in such an absurd fashion--and I've always told you that this room looks like a bandit's den." "No, no, Laura; say an artist's studio. How could I get along without my furniture. As for my dress, it's quite in keeping with the place and the people. It's picturesque, and that's all an artist is bound to consider."