Yes, Matanzas was pacified.  Weyler’s boast was true.  Nowhere in the entire province was a field in cultivation; nowhere, outside the garrisoned towns, was a house left standing.  Nor was the city of Matanzas the only concentration camp; there were others dotted through Santa Clara, Habana, and Pinar del Rio.  In them half a million people cried for food.  Truly no rebellious land was ever more completely pacified than this, no people’s spirits ever more completely crushed.  Voices no longer preached resistance; they prayed to “Our Lady of Pity” for a merciful conclusion of this misery.  Hands were upraised, but only to implore.  In leaky huts from Jucaro to Cape San Antonio the dead lay huddled thickly.

Into Matanzas, city of beggary and death, came Rosa Varona and her two negro companions, looking for relief.  They made the journey without mishap, for they were too destitute to warrant plundering, and Rosa’s disguise concealed what charms remained to her.  But once they had entered the city, what an awakening!  What suffering, what poverty, what rags they saw!  The three of them grew weak with dismay at the horror of it all; but there was no retreat.

Asensio built a makeshift shelter close under La Cumbre—­from it the ruins of the Quinta de Esteban were visible—­and there they settled down to live.  They had hoped to lose themselves among the other prisoners, and in this they were successful, for none of their miserable neighbors were in any condition to notice them, and there was nothing sufficiently conspicuous about two tattered blacks and their hunchbacked daughter to draw attention from the soldiers.

Asensio foraged zealously, and at first he managed somehow to secure enough food for his little family.  He developed a real talent for discovering vegetables and fruits.  He stole, he begged, and he found food where there was none.  One day the soldiers seized him and put him to work on the fortifications along with a gang of other men who appeared strong enough to stand hard labor.  Asensio was not paid for this, but he was allowed one meal a day, and he succeeded in bringing home each night a share of his allotment.

It is surprising how little nourishment will sustain life.  Rosa and her two friends had long felt the pinch of hunger, but now they plumbed new depths of privation, for there were days when Asensio and his fellow-conscripts received nothing at all.  After a time Evangelina began making baskets and weaving palm-leaf hats, which she sold at six cents each.  She taught Rosa the craft, and they worked from dawn until dark, striving with nimble, tireless fingers to supplement Asensio’s rations and postpone starvation.  But it was a hopeless task.  Other nimble fingers worked as tirelessly as theirs, and the demand for hats was limited.

Their hut overlooked the road to San Severino, that via dolorosa on which condemned prisoners were marched out to execution, and in time the women learned to recognize the peculiar blaring notes of a certain cornet, which signified that another “Cuban cock was about to crow.”  When in the damp of dewy mornings they heard that bugle they ceased their weaving long enough to cross themselves and whisper a prayer for the souls of those who were on their way to die.  But this was the only respite they allowed themselves.