Meanwhile, he was compelled to see a good deal of Leslie Branch.  The reporter was anything but cheerful company, for, believing firmly in the steady progress of his malady, he was weighed down by the deepest melancholy.  The fellow was a veritable cave of despair; he voiced never-ceasing complaints; nothing suited him; and but for something likable in the man—­an effect due in part to the fact that his chronic irritation took amusing forms—­he would have been an intolerable bore.  To cheer him up was quite impossible, and although it seemed to Johnnie that the Cuban climate agreed with him and that he lacked only strength of will to cheat the grave, the mere suggestion of such a thought was offensive to the invalid.  He construed every optimistic word, every effort at encouragement, either as a reflection upon his sincerity or as the indication of a heartless indifference to his sufferings.  He continued to talk wistfully about joining the Insurrectos, and O’Reilly would have been glad to put him in the way of realizing his fantastic ambition to “taste the salt of life” had it been in his power; but, since he himself depended upon friends unknown to him, he did not dare to risk complicating matters.  In fact, he did not even tell Branch of his coming adventure.

The day of days dawned at last, and Johnnie was early at Manin’s soda-fountain, drinking insipid beverages and anxiously watching the street.  In due time the negroes appeared, their straw sarons laden with produce which they innocently disposed of.  O’Reilly began to consult his watch with such frequency that the druggist joked him.

Manin’s banter was interrupted by a bugle-call.  Down the street came perhaps two hundred mounted troops.  They wheeled into San Rafael Street at a gallop and disappeared in the direction of the suburbs.

“Now what does that mean?” murmured the druggist.  “Wait here while I go to the roof where I can see something.”

O’Reilly tried to compose himself, meanwhile becoming aware of a growing excitement in the street.  Pedestrians had halted, shopkeepers had come to their doors, questions were flying from mouth to mouth.  Then from the direction of the fort at the end of San Rafael Street sounded a faint rattling fusillade, more bugle-calls, and finally the thin, distant shouting of men.

“Rebels!” some one cried.

“Dios mio, they are attacking the city!”

“They have audacity, eh?”

The roofs were black with people now.  Manin came hurrying down into the store.

“Something has gone wrong,” he whispered.  “They’re fighting out yonder in the woods.  There has been some treachery.”

“It is ten-fifteen,” said O’Reilly.  “I must be going.”

Manin stared at him.  “You don’t understand—­”

“Those black fellows are getting their horses ready.  I’m going.”

The druggist tried to force Johnnie into a chair.  “Madman!” he panted.  “I tell you our friends have been betrayed; they are retreating.  Go back to your hotel quickly.”