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.
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