Jacket brightened at the thought of escape.  “Ho!  I’ll bet we can find a hole somewhere,” said he.  “We’re not like these others.  They haven’t the spirit to try.”  There was a moment of silence, and then:  “Caramba!  You remember those jutias we ate?  They were strong, but I would enjoy the smell of one now.  Eh?  Another week of this and we shall be living on garbage like the rest of these poor people.”

Leaving Jacket to take his time, Johnnie completed the climb alone, meditating upon the boy’s words.  “The spirit to try!” Where had his spirit gone, he wondered.  Perhaps it had been crushed beneath the weight of misery he had beheld; surely he had seen enough.  Hourly contact with sickness and misfortune on such a gigantic scale was enough to chill any one’s hopes, and although his sensibilities had been dulled, his apprehensions had been quickened hour by hour.  Now that he looked the matter squarely in the face, it seemed absurd to believe that a tender girl like Rosa Varona could long have withstood the hardships of this hideous place; stronger people than she had succumbed, by the hundreds.  Even now the hospitals were full, the sick lay untended in their hovels.  No one, so far as O’Reilly knew, had undertaken to estimate how fast they were dying or the number of dead which had already ridden out of Matanzas in those rumbling wagons, but there were many.  What chance was there that Rosa had not been among the latter?  Better by far had she remained among the empty fields and the barren slopes of the Pan de Matanzas, for there at least the soil held roots and the trees bore fruits or berries, while here was nothing but gaunt famine and grinning disease.

As he breasted the summit of La Cumbre, O’Reilly beheld at some distance a bent figure of want.  It was a negro woman, grubbing in the earth with a sharpened stick.  After a suspicious scrutiny of him she resumed her digging.

Nothing but a heap of stones and plaster remained of the Varona home.  The grounds, once beautiful even when neglected as in Dona Isabel’s time, were now a scene of total desolation.  A few orange-trees, to be sure, remained standing, and although they were cool and green to look at, they carried no fruit and the odor of their blooms was a trial and a mockery to the hungry visitor.  The evidences of Cueto’s vandalism affected O’Reilly deeply; they brought him memories more painful than he had anticipated.  Although the place was well-nigh unrecognizable, nevertheless it cried aloud of Rosa, and the unhappy lover could barely control the emotions it awakened.  It was indeed a morbid impulse which had brought him thither, but now that he was here he could not leave.  Unconsciously his feet turned toward the ancient quarry which had formed the sunken garden—­his and Rosa’s trysting-place.

O’Reilly desired above all things to be alone at this moment, and so he was annoyed to discover that another person was before him—­ a woman, evidently some miserable pacifico like himself.  She, too, appeared to be looking for roots, and he almost stumbled over her as he brushed through the guava-bushes fringing the depression.