“Then you don’t know positively that she ... that she—­”

“Wait.  There is no doubt that the boy was killed, but of Rosa’s fate I can only form my own opinion.  However, one of Esteban’s men joined my troops later, and I not only learned something about the girl, but also why Esteban had been so relentlessly pursued.  It was all Cobo’s doings.  You have heard of the fellow?  No?  Well, you will.”  The speaker’s tone was eloquent of hatred.  “He is worse than the worst of them—­a monster!  He had seen Miss Varona.  She was a beautiful girl. ...”

“Go on!” whispered the lover.

“I discovered that she didn’t at first obey Weyler’s edict.  She and the two negroes—­they were former slaves of her father, I believe—­took refuge in the Pan de Matanzas.  Later on, Cobo’s men made a raid and—­killed a great many.  Some few escaped into the high ravines, but Miss Varona was not one of them.  Out of regard for Esteban I made careful search, but I could find no trace of her.”

“And yet, you don’t know what happened?” O’Reilly ventured.  “You’re not sure?”

“No, but I tell you again Cobo’s men take no prisoners.  When I heard about that raid I gave up looking for her.”

“This—­Cobo”—­the American’s voice shook in spite of his effort to hold it steady—­“I shall hope to meet him some time.”

The sudden fury that filled Colonel Lopez’s face was almost hidden by the gloom.  “Yes.  Oh yes!” he cried, quickly, “and you are but one of a hundred; I am another.  In my command there is a standing order to spare neither Cobo nor any of his assassins; they neither expect nor receive quarter from us.  Now, companero”—­the Cuban dropped a hand on O’Reilly’s bowed head—­“I am sorry that I had to bring you such evil tidings, but, we are men—­and this is war.”

“No, no!  It isn’t war—­it’s merciless savagery!  To murder children and to outrage women—­why, that violates all the ethics of warfare.”

“Ethics!” the colonel cried, harshly.  “Ethics?  Hell is without ethics.  Why look for ethics in war?  Violence—­injustice—­insanity--chaos—­that is war.  It is man’s agony—­woman’s despair.  It is a defiance of God.  War is without mercy, without law; it is—­well, it is the absence of all law, all good.”

There was a considerable silence.  Then Lopez went on in another key.

“We Cubans carry heavy hearts, but our wrongs have made us mighty, and our sufferings have made us brave.  Here in the orient we do well enough; but, believe me, you cannot imagine the desolation and the suffering farther west—­whole provinces made barren and their inhabitants either dead or dying.  The world has never seen anything like Weyler’s slaughter of the innocents.  If there is indeed a God—­and sometimes I doubt it—­he will not permit this horror to continue; from every pool of Cuban blood another patriot will spring up, until we drive that archfiend and his armies into the sea.  Go back to your own country now, and if your grief has made you one of us in sympathy, tell the world what that black butcher in Havana is doing, and beg your Government to recognize our belligerency, so that we may have arms.  Arms!”