"Look!" Jacket clutched at O'Reilly and pointed¹ a shaking finger. "More beggars! Cristo! And those little children!" The boy tried to laugh, but his voice cracked nervously². "Are they children, or gourds³ with legs under them?"  
O'Reilly looked, then turned his eyes away. He and Jacket had reached the heart of Matanzas and were facing the public square, the Plaza⁴ de la Libertad it was called. O'Reilly knew the place well; every building that flanked it was familiar to him, from the vast, rambling⁵ Governor's Palace to the ornate Casino Espanol and the Grand Hotel, and time was when he had been a welcome visitor at all of them. But things were different now. Gone were the customary crowds of well-dressed, well-fed citizens; gone the rows of carriages which at this hour of the day were wont⁶ to circle the Plaza laden⁷ with the aristocracy of the city; gone was that air of cheerfulness and substance which had lent distinction to the place. Matanzas appeared poor and squalid, depressingly wretched; its streets were foul⁸ and the Plaza de la Libertad—grim mockery of a name—was crowded with a throng⁹ such as it had never held in O'Reilly's time, a throng of people who were, without exception, gaunt, listless, ragged¹⁰. There was no afternoon parade of finery, no laughter, no noise; the benches were full, but their occupants were silent, too sick or too weak to move. Nor were there any romping¹¹ children. There were, to be sure, vast numbers of undersized figures in the square, but one needed to look twice to realize that they were not pygmies or wizened¹² little old folks. It was not strange that Jacket had compared them to gourds with legs, for all were naked, and most of them had bodies swollen¹³ into the likeness¹⁴ of pods or calabashes. They looked peculiarly grotesque¹⁵ with their spidery legs and thin faces.
 
O'Reilly passed a damp hand across his eyes. "God!" he breathed.
"She—she's one of these!"
He had not penetrated¹⁶ even thus far into the city without receiving a hint of what conditions must be, for in the outlying streets he had seen sights and smelled odors that had sickened him; but now that he was face to face with the worst, now that he breathed the very breath of misery¹⁷, he could scarcely credit what he saw. A stench, indescribably nauseating¹⁸, assailed¹⁹ him and Jacket as they mingled²⁰ with the crowd, for as yet their nostrils²¹ were unused to poverty and filth²². It was the rancid odor that arises from unwashed, unhealthy bodies, and it testified eloquently²³ to the living-conditions of the prisoners. Hollow eyes and hopeless faces followed the two new-comers as they picked their way slowly along.
 
The reconcentrados overran Matanzas in an unclean swarm²⁴; streets and plazas²⁵ were congested with them, for no attempt was made to confine them to their quarters. Morning brought them streaming down from the suburban²⁶ slopes where they lived, evening sent them winding²⁷ back; their days were spent in an aimless search for food. They snatched at crumbs²⁸ and combed the gutters²⁹ for crusts. How they managed to exist, whence came the food that kept life in their miserable³¹ bodies, was a mystery, even to the citizens of the city; no organized effort had been made to care for them and there was insufficient³² surplus food for half their number. Yet somehow they lived and lingered on.
 
Of course the city was not entirely³³ peopled by the starving—as a matter of fact they formed scarcely one-fifth of the normal civil population—and the life of the city was going on a good deal as usual. Stores were open, at least there was a daily train from Habana, and the barracks were full of Spanish troops. It was from off the wastage of this normal population that these fifteen thousand prisoners were forced to live. Even this wastage was woefully inadequate³⁴, merely serving to prolong suffering by making starvation slower.
 
At the time of O'Reilly's arrival the sight presented by these innocent victims of war was appalling³⁵; it roused in him a dull red rage at the power which had wrought³⁶ this crime and at the men who permitted it to continue. Spain was a Christian³⁷ nation, he reflected; she had set up more crosses than any other, and yet beneath them she had butchered more people than all the nations of the earth combined. This monstrous³⁸, coldly calculating effort to destroy the entire Cuban people seemed to him the blackest infamy³⁹ of all, and he wondered if it would be allowed to succeed.
 
Fortunately for the two friends, General Betancourt's generosity⁴⁰ served to relieve them from any immediate⁴¹ danger of starvation. After making a few purchases and eating with the utmost frugality⁴², they began their search. Later, they stretched themselves out to sleep on the stones beneath the portales of the railroad station.
 
They spent a horrid⁴³, harrowing night, for now the general distress⁴⁴ was brought home to them more poignantly⁴⁵ than ever. At dawn they learned that these people were actually dying of neglect. The faint light betrayed the presence of new corpses⁴⁶ lying upon the station flagstones. From those still living, groans⁴⁷, sighs, sick mutterings rose until O'Reilly finally dragged his youthful companion out of the place.
 
"I can't stand that," he confessed. "I can't sleep when people are starving to death alongside of me. This money burns my pocket. I—I—"
 
Jacket read his purpose and laid a detaining hand upon his arm.
 
"It will save OUR lives, too," he said, simply.
 
"Bah! We are men. There are women and children yonder—"
 
But Jacket's sensibilities were calloused⁴⁸, it seemed. "Of what use would your few pesetas be among so many?" he inquired. "God has willed this, and He knows what He is doing. Besides, your 'pretty one' is probably as hungry as are these people. No doubt we shall find that she, too, is starving."
 
O'Reilly slowly withdrew his hand from his pocket. "Yes! It's Rosa's money. But—come; I can't endure this."
 
He led the way back to the Plaza of Liberty and there on an iron bench they waited for the full day. They were very tired, but further sleep was impossible, for the death-wagons⁴⁹ rumbled⁵⁰ by on their way to collect the bodies of those who had died during the night.
 
Neither the man nor the boy ever wholly lost the nightmare memory of the next few days, for their search took them into every part of the reconcentrado districts. What they beheld⁵¹ aged³⁰ them. Day after day, from dawn till dark, they wandered, peering into huts, staring into faces, asking questions until they were faint from fatigue⁵² and sick with disappointment.
 
As time passed and they failed to find Rosa Varona a terrible apprehension⁵³ began to weigh O'Reilly down; his face grew old and drawn⁵⁴, his shoulders sagged⁵⁵, his limbs began to drag. It was all that Jacket could do to keep him going. The boy, now that there was actual need of him, proved a perfect jewel; his optimism never failed, his faith never faltered⁵⁶, and O'Reilly began to feel a dumb gratitude⁵⁷ at having the youngster by his side.
 
Jacket, too, became thin and gray about the lips. But he complained not at all and he laughed a great deal. To him the morrow was always another day of brilliant promise toward which he looked with never-failing eagerness; and not for a single moment did he question the ultimate success of their endeavor. Such an example did much for the older man. Together they practised the strictest, harshest economy, living on a few cents a day, while they methodically searched the city from limit to limit.
 
At first O'Reilly concerned himself more than a little with the problem of escape, but as time wore on he thought less and less about that. Nor did he have occasion to waste further concern regarding his disguise. That it was perfect he proved when several of his former acquaintances passed him by and when, upon one occasion, he came face to face with old Don Mario de Castano. Don Mario had changed; he was older, his flesh had softened⁵⁸, and it hung loosely upon his form. He appeared worried, harassed⁵⁹, and O'Reilly recalled rumors⁶⁰ that the war had ruined him. The man's air of dejection seemed to bear out the story.
 
They had been enemies, nevertheless O'Reilly felt a sudden impulse to make himself known to the Spaniard and to appeal directly for news of Rosa's fate. But Don Mario, he remembered in time, had a reputation for vindictiveness⁶¹, so he smothered⁶² the desire. One other encounter O'Reilly had reason to remember.
 
It so chanced that one day he and Jacket found themselves in the miserable rabble⁶³ which assembled at the railroad station to implore⁶⁴ alms from the incoming passengers of the Habana train. Few people were traveling these days, and they were, for the most part, Spanish officers to whom the sight of starving country people was no novelty. Now and then, however, there did arrive visitors from whom the spectacle of so much wretchedness wrung⁶⁵ a contribution, hence there was always an expectant throng at the depot⁶⁶. On this occasion O'Reilly was surprised to hear the piteous whines⁶⁷ for charity in the name of God turn suddenly into a subdued⁶⁸ but vicious mutter of rage. Hisses⁶⁹ were intermingled with vituperations, then the crowd fell strangely silent, parting to allow the passage of a great, thick-set man in the uniform of a Colonel of Volunteers. The fellow was unusually swarthy and he wore a black scowl⁷⁰ upon his face, while a long puckering⁷¹ scar the full length of one cheek lifted his mouth into a crooked⁷² sneer⁷³ and left exposed a glimpse of wolfish teeth.
 
O'Reilly was at a loss to fathom⁷⁴ this sudden alteration⁷⁵ of attitude, the whistle of indrawn breaths and the whispered curses, until he heard some one mutter the name, "Cobo." Then indeed he started and stiffened⁷⁶ in his tracks. He fixed⁷⁷ a fascinated stare upon the fellow.
 
Colonel Cobo seemed no little pleased by the reception he created. With his chest arched and his black eyes gleaming malevolently⁷⁸ he swaggered through the press, clicking his heels noisily upon the stone flags. When he had gone Jacket voiced a vicious oath.
 
"So that is the butcher of babies!" exclaimed the boy. "Well, now, I should enjoy cutting his heart out."
 
O'Reilly's emotions were not entirely unlike those of his small companion. His lips became dry and white as he tried to speak.
 
"What a brute⁷⁹! That face—Ugh!"
 
He found himself shaking weakly, and discovered that a new and wholly unaccountable feeling of discouragement had settled upon him. He tried manfully to shake it off, but somehow failed, for the sight of Rosa's arch-enemy and the man's overbearing personality had affected⁸⁰ him queerly. Cobo's air of confidence and authority seemed to emphasize O'Reilly's impotence and bring it forcibly home to him. To think of his lustful⁸¹ persecution⁸² of Rosa Varona, moreover, terrified him. The next day he resumed his hut-to-hut search, but with a listlessness that came from a firm conviction that once again he was too late.
 
That afternoon found the two friends among the miserable hovels which encircled the foot of La Cumbre, about the only quarter they had not explored. Below lay San Severino, the execution-place; above was the site of the old Verona home. More than once on his way about the city O'Reilly had lifted his eyes in the d............