At the time of O’Reilly’s arrival the sight presented by these innocent victims of war was appalling; it roused in him a dull red rage at the power which had wrought this crime and at the men who permitted it to continue.  Spain was a Christian 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 monstrous, coldly calculating effort to destroy the entire Cuban people seemed to him the blackest infamy of all, and he wondered if it would be allowed to succeed.

Fortunately for the two friends, General Betancourt’s generosity served to relieve them from any immediate danger of starvation.  After making a few purchases and eating with the utmost frugality, they began their search.  Later, they stretched themselves out to sleep on the stones beneath the portales of the railroad station.

They spent a horrid, harrowing night, for now the general distress was brought home to them more poignantly than ever.  At dawn they learned that these people were actually dying of neglect.  The faint light betrayed the presence of new corpses lying upon the station flagstones.  From those still living, groans, 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 calloused, 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-wagons rumbled 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 beheld aged them.  Day after day, from dawn till dark, they wandered, peering into huts, staring into faces, asking questions until they were faint from fatigue and sick with disappointment.

As time passed and they failed to find Rosa Varona a terrible apprehension began to weigh O’Reilly down; his face grew old and drawn, his shoulders sagged, 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 faltered, and O’Reilly began to feel a dumb gratitude at having the youngster by his side.