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 softened, and it hung loosely upon his form.  He appeared worried, harassed, and O’Reilly recalled rumors 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 vindictiveness, so he smothered 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 rabble which assembled at the railroad station to implore 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 wrung a contribution, hence there was always an expectant throng at the depot.  On this occasion O’Reilly was surprised to hear the piteous whines for charity in the name of God turn suddenly into a subdued but vicious mutter of rage.  Hisses 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 scowl upon his face, while a long puckering scar the full length of one cheek lifted his mouth into a crooked sneer and left exposed a glimpse of wolfish teeth.

O’Reilly was at a loss to fathom this sudden alteration 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 stiffened in his tracks.  He fixed 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 malevolently he swaggered through the press, clicking his heels noisily upon the stone flags.  When he had gone Jacket voiced a vicious oath.