But Branch only shook his head.  “They couldn’t hit anything,” he cried.

The next instant, as if to punctuate his remark, a spent bullet smashed the mirror and sprinkled the speaker with particles of glass.  It was only by a miracle that he escaped injury.  Branch reined in his horse, examined the wreck, then with a petulant exclamation cast the useless frame away.

“Come on, Johnnie,” Judson growled.  “The damn fool wants to get shot.”

The sick man’s bravado roused in O’Reilly a feeling of mingled resentment and apprehension, but further warning would obviously be a waste of breath.  Nevertheless, being a little too tender-hearted to follow Judson’s nonchalant example and ride on, O’Reilly held in his horse, meanwhile keeping an anxious eye upon his friend.

The latter was in no hurry; he jogged along leisurely, evidently on the lookout for an opportunity to replenish his wardrobe.  Truth to say, this needed replenishing—­Leslie resembled a scarecrow clad in a suit of soiled pajamas.  But by this time most of the shops had their shutters up.  When the last one had been left behind O’Reilly spurred his horse into a gallop, relieved to know that the worst was over.

The raiders had approached San Antonio de los Banos across the fields at the rear, but Colonel Lopez led their retreat by way of the camino real which followed the riverbank.  This road for a short distance was exposed to the fire from one fort; then it was sheltered by a bit of rising ground.

O’Reilly, among the last to cross the zone of fire, was just congratulating himself upon the fortunate outcome of the skirmish when he saw Colonel Lopez ride to the crest of a knoll, rise in his stirrups and, lifting his cupped hands to his lips, direct a loud shout back toward the town.  Lopez was followed by several of his men, who likewise began to yell and to wave their arms excitedly.

Johnnie turned to discover that Leslie Branch had lagged far behind, and now, as if to cap his fantastic performances, had dismounted and was descending the river-bank to a place where a large washing had been spread upon the stones to dry.  He was quite exposed, and a spiteful crackle from the nearest blockhouse showed that the Spaniards were determined to bring him down.  Mauser bullets ricocheted among the rocks—­even from this distance their sharp explosions were audible—­others broke the surface of the stream into little geysers, as if a school of fish were leaping.

While Johnnie looked on in breathless apprehension Branch appropriated several suits that promised to fit him; then he climbed up the bank, remounted his horse, and ambled slowly out of range.

Now this was precisely the sort of harebrained exploit which delights a Cuban audience.  When Leslie rejoined his comrades, therefore, he was greeted with shouts and cheers.

“Caramba!  He would risk his life for a clean shirt. ...  There’s a fellow for you!  He enjoys the hum of these Spanish bees! ...  Bravo!  Tell us what the bullets said to you,” they cried, crowding around him in an admiring circle.