"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."