"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.