“Mr. Branch?”

“Si!  The very same.  He has just come from the front.”

“Is he sick or wounded?” Esteban inquired.

“Shot, by a Spanish bullet.  He asked at once for our senorita.”

“Of course.  I’ll come in an instant.”  When the messenger had gone Norine bent and pressed her lips to Esteban’s.  “Remember, you’re mine to do with as I please,” she said; then she fled down the grassy street.

Branch was waiting at Norine’s quarters, a soiled figure of dejection.  His left arm lay in a sling across his breast.  He looked up at her approach, but she scarcely recognized him, so greatly changed was he.

Leslie had filled out.  There was a healthy color beneath his deep tan, his flesh was firm, his eyes clear and bright.

“Hello, Norine!” he cried.  “Well, they got me.”

Norine paused in astonishment. “’Way, Leslie!  I was so frightened!  But—­you can’t be badly hurt.”

“Bad enough so that Lopez sent me in.  A fellow gets flyblown if he stays in the field, so I beat it.”

“Has your arm been dressed?”

“No.  I wouldn’t let these rough-and-tumble doctors touch it.  They’d amputate at the shoulder for a hang-nail.  I don’t trust ’em.”

“Then I’ll look at it.”

But Leslie shrugged.  “Oh, it’s feeling fine, right now!  I’d rather leave it alone.  I just wanted to see you—­”

“You mustn’t neglect it; there’s danger of—­”

“Gee!  You’re looking great,” he interrupted.  “It’s better than a banquet just to look at you.”

“And you!” Norine scanned the invalid appraisingly.  “Why, you’re another man!”

“Sure!  Listen to this.”  He thumped his chest.  “Best pair of bellows in Cuba.  The open air did it.”

“What a pity you were hurt just at such a time.  But you would take insane risks.  Now then, let’s have a look at your wound.”  She pushed him, protesting, into her cabin.

“It doesn’t hurt, really,” he declared.  “It’s only a scratch.”

“Of course you’d say so.  Sit down.”

“Please don’t bother.  If you don’t mind—­”

“But I do mind.  If you won’t trust me I’ll run for a doctor.”

“I tell you I can’t stand ’em.  They’ll probe around and give a fellow gangrene.”

“Then behave yourself.”  Norine forced the patient into a chair and withdrew his arm from the sling.  Then, despite his weak resistance, she deftly removed the bandage.  From his expression she felt sure that she must be hurting him, but when the injury was exposed she looked up in wonderment.

“Leslie!” she exclaimed.  “What in the world—­”

“Well!  You insisted on seeing it,” he grumbled.  “I told you it wasn’t much.”  He tried to meet her eyes, but failed.

There was a moment’s pause, then Norine inquired, curiously:  “What is the trouble?  You’d better ’fess up.”

Branch struggled with himself, he swallowed hard, then said:  “I’m--going to.  You can see now why I didn’t go to a doctor:  I did it—­shot myself.  You won’t give me away?”