“My Heavens! father, would you turn me out of my home because we disagree?” he asked, desperately.

“In my country sons obey their fathers or they go out for themselves.”

“I’ve not been a disobedient son,” declared Kurt.  “And here in America sons have more freedom—­more say.”

“America has no sense of family life—­no honest government.  I hate the country.”

A ball of fire seemed to burst in Kurt.

“That kind of talk infuriates me,” he blazed.  “I don’t care if you are my father.  Why in the hell did you come to America?  Why did you stay?  Why did you marry my mother—­an American woman?...  That’s rot—­just spiteful rot!  I’ve heard you tell what life was in Europe when you were a boy.  You ran off.  You stayed in this country because it was a better country than yours....  Fifty years you’ve been in America—­many years on this farm.  And you love this land....  My God! father, can’t you and men like you see the truth?”

“Aye, I can,” gloomily replied the old man.  “The truth is we’ll lose the land.  That greedy Anderson will drive me off.”

“He will not.  He’s fine—­generous,” asserted Kurt, earnestly.  “All he wanted was to see the prospects of the harvest and perhaps to help you.  Anderson has not had interest on his money for three years.  I’ll bet he’s paid interest demanded by the other stockholders in that bank you borrowed from.  Why, he’s our friend!”

“Aye, and I see more,” boomed the father.  “He fetched his lass up here to make eyes at my son.  I saw her—­the sly wench!...  Boy, you’ll not marry her!”

Kurt choked back his mounting rage.

“Certainly I never will,” he said, bitterly.  “But I would if she’d have me.”

“What!” thundered Dorn, his white locks standing up and shaking like the mane of a lion.  “That wheat banker’s daughter!  Never!  I forbid it.  You shall not marry any American girl.”

“Father, this is idle, foolish rant,” cried Kurt, with a high warning note in his voice.  “I’ve no idea of marrying....  But if I had one—­whom else could I marry except an American girl?”

“I’ll sell the wheat—­the land.  We’ll go back to Germany!”

That was maddening to Kurt.  He sprang up, sending dishes to the floor with a crash.  He bent over to pound the table with a fist.  Violent speech choked him and he felt a cold, tight blanching of his face.

“Listen!” he rang out.  “If I go to Germany it’ll be as a soldier—­to kill Germans!...  I’m done—­I’m through with the very name....  Listen to the last words I’ll ever speak to you in German—­the last! To hell with Germany!”

Then Kurt plunged, blind in his passion, out of the door into the night.  And as he went he heard his father cry out, brokenly: 

“My son!  Oh, my son!”

The night was dark and cool.  A faint wind blew across the hills, and it was dry, redolent, sweet.  The sky seemed an endless curving canopy of dark blue blazing with myriads of stars.