It was fortunate indeed that he knew no Spanish and that most of his companions were equally ignorant of English, for mere admiration, even of the fervent Latin quality, would scarcely have been proof against his spleen.  As it was, his camp-mates endured his vituperations blandly, putting him down as a pleasing eccentric in whom there blazed a curious but inspiring spirit of patriotism.

O’Reilly alone understood the reason for the fellow’s morbid irritability, his suicidal recklessness; but when he privately remonstrated he was gruffly told to mind his own business.  Branch flatly refused to modify his conduct; he seemed really bent upon cheating the disease that made his life a misery.

But, as usual, Fate was perverse; she refused to humor the sick man’s hope.  When, after blindly inviting death, Leslie had emerged from several engagements unscathed, his surprise—­and perhaps a natural relief at finding himself whole—­became tinged with a certain apprehension lest he survive those deliberately courted dangers, only to succumb to the ills and privations of camp life.  Cuban equipment was of the scantiest.  Cuban dews are heavy; Cuban nights are cool—­these were perils indeed for a weak-lunged invalid.  Branch began to fret.  Rain filled him with more terror than fixed bayonets, a chill caused him keener consternation than did a thousand Spaniards; he began to have agonizing visions of himself lying in some leaky hovel of a hospital.  It was typical of his peculiar irritability that he held O’Reilly in some way responsible, and vented upon him his bitterness of spirit.

The fellow’s tongue grew ever sharper; his society became intolerable, his gloom oppressive and irresistibly contagious.  When, after several weeks of campaigning, the column went into camp for a short rest, O’Reilly decided that he would try to throw off the burden of Leslie’s overwhelming dejection, and, if possible, shift a portion of it upon the shoulders of Captain Judson.

On the day after their arrival O’Reilly and the big artilleryman took advantage of a pleasant stream to bathe and wash their clothes; then, while they lay in their hammocks, enjoying the luxury of a tattered oil-cloth shelter and waiting for the sun to dry their garments, O’Reilly spoke what was in his mind.

“I’m getting about fed up on Leslie,” he declared.  “He’s the world’s champion crepe-hanger, and he’s painted the whole world such a deep, despondent blue that I’m completely dismal.  You’ve got to take him off my hands.”

Judson grunted.  “What ails him?”

“Well, he wears a wreath of immortelles day and night.  Haven’t you guessed why he runs such desperate chances?  He’s sick—­thinks he’s going to die, anyhow, and wants to finish the job quick.  I’m the one who has to endure him.”

“Suicide?”

“It amounts to that.”

“The devil!” Judson pondered for a moment.  “Can’t you cheer him up?”