The high note of a flute playing a wailing air came to them
through the narrow windows. It was "Home, Sweet Home," played by a boy
in prison. The Mexicans did not know the song, but its solemn note was
not without an appeal to Portilla and Garay. Portilla wiped the
perspiration from his face.
"Come away," he said. "We can talk better elsewhere."
They turned in the opposite direction, but Urrea did not remain with
them long. Making some excuse for leaving them he went rapidly to the
church. He knew that his rank and authority would secure him prompt
admission from the guards, but he stopped, a moment, at the door. The
prisoners were now singing. Three or four hundred voices were joined in
some hymn of the north that he did not know, some song of the
English-speaking people. The great volume of sound floated out, and was
heard everywhere in the little town.
Urrea was not moved at all. "Rebels and filibusters!" he said in
Spanish, under his breath, but fiercely. Then he ordered the door
unbarred, and went in. Two soldiers went with him and held torches
aloft.
The singing ceased when Urrea entered. Ned was standing against the
wall, and the young Mexican instinctively turned toward him, because he
knew Ned best.
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