"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.
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