Norine's color had returned. She stood over the hammock, looking down mistily. "Don't you need me, want me any more?" she inquired.

Esteban turned his tired eyes away, fearing to betray in them his utter wretchedness. "You have done all there is to do. I want you to go back into your own world and forget--"

A sudden impulse seized the girl. She stopped and gathered the sick man into her young, strong arms. "Don't be silly," she cried. "My world is your world, Esteban dear. I'll never, never leave you."

"Miss Evans! NORINE!" Varona tried feebly to free himself. "You mustn't--"

Norine was laughing through her tears. "If you won't speak, I suppose I must, but it is very embarra.s.sing. Don't you suppose I know exactly how much you love me? Why, you've told me a thousand times--"

"Please! PLEASE!" he cried in a shaking voice. "This is wrong. I won't let you--you, a girl with everything--"

"Hush!" She drew him closer. "You're going to tell me that you have nothing, can offer me nothing. You're going to do the generous, n.o.ble thing. Well! I hate generous people. I'm selfish, utterly selfish and spoiled, and I don't propose to be robbed of anything I want, least of all my happiness. You do love me, don't you?"

Esteban's cry was eloquent; he clasped his arms about her and she held him fiercely to her breast.

"Well, then, why don't you tell me so? I--I can't keep on proposing. It isn't ladylike."

"We're quite mad, quite insane," he told her after a while. "This only makes it harder to give you up."

"You're not going to give me up and you're not going to die. I sha'n't let you. Think what you have to live for."

"I--did wrong to surrender."

"It was I who surrendered. Come! Must I say it all? Aren't you going to ask me--"

"What?"

"Why, to marry you, of course."

Esteban gasped; he looked deeply into Norine's eyes, then he closed his own. He shook his head. "Not that," he whispered. "Oh, not that!"

"We're going to be married, and I'm going to take you out of this miserable place."

"What happiness!" he murmured. "If I were well--But I won't let you marry a dying man."

Norine rose, her face aglow with new strength, new determination. She dried her eyes and readjusted her hair with deft, unconscious touch, smiling down, meanwhile, at the man. "I brought you back when you were all but gone. I saved you after the others had given you up, and now you are mine to do with as I please. You belong to me and I sha'n't consult you--" She turned, for a figure had darkened the door; it was one of her English-speaking convalescents who was acting as a sort of orderly.

"Senorita," the man said, with a flash of white teeth, "we have another sick man, and you'd never guess who. It is that American, El Demonio--"

"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 gra.s.sy 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.

"h.e.l.lo, 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?"