“You know all that I know now and everything that has happened to me.”

“I don’t know how you came to be in a cell in San Antonio de los Banos, two hundred miles from the place you were killed.  That is still a mystery.”

“It is very simple, amigo.  Let me see:  I had finished telling you about the fight at La Joya.  I was telling you how I fainted.”

“Exactly.  Norine bound and gagged you at that point in the story.”

“Some good people found me a few hours after I lost consciousness.  They supposed I had been attacked by guerrillas and left for dead.  Finding that I still had life in me, they took me home with them.  They were old friends from Matanzas by the name of Valdes—­ cultured people who had fled the city and were hiding in the manigua like the rest of us.”

“Not Valdes, the notary?”

“The very same.  Alberto Valdes and his four daughters.  Heaven guided them to me.  Alberto was an old man; he had hard work to provide food for his girls.  Nevertheless, he refused to abandon me.  The girls had become brown and ragged and as shy as deer.  They nursed me for weeks, for my wounds became infected.  God!  It seems to me that I lay there sick and helpless for years.  When my brain would clear I would think of Rosa, and then the fever would rise again and I would go out of my head.  Oh, they were faithful, patient people!  You see, I had walked east instead of west, and now I was miles away from home, and the country between was swarming with Spaniards who were burning, destroying, killing.  You wouldn’t know Matanzas, O’Reilly.  It is a desert.

“I finally became able to drag myself around the hut.  But I had no means of sending word to Rosa, and the uncertainty nearly made me crazy.  My clothes had rotted from me; my bones were just under the skin.  I must have been a shocking sight.  Then one day there came a fellow traveling east with messages for Gomez.  He was one of Lopez’s men, and he told me that Lopez had gone to the Rubi Hills with Maceo, and that there were none of our men left in the province.  He told me other things, too.  It was from him that I learned—­” Estban Varona’s thin hands clutched the edges of his hammock and he rolled his head weakly from side to side.  “It was he who told me about Rosa.  He said that Cobo had ravaged the Yumuri and that my sister—­was gone.  Christ!”

“There, there!  We know better now,” O’Reilly said, soothingly.

“It was a hideous story, a story of rape, murder.  I wonder that I didn’t go mad.  It never occurred to me to doubt, and as a matter of fact the fellow was honest enough; he really believed what he told me.  Well, I was sorry I hadn’t died that night in the sunken road.  All the hope, all the desire to live, went out of me.  You see, I had been more than half expecting something of the kind.  Every time I had left Rosa it had been with the sickening fear that I might never see here again.  After the man had finished I felt the desire to get away from all I had known and loved, to leave Matanzas for new fields and give what was left of me to the cause.