There was much of the tiger cat in Urrea. He had the same
feline grace and power, the same smoothness and quiet before going into
action.
"You sing, you are happy," he said to Ned, although he meant them all.
"It is well. You of the north bear misfortune well."
"We do the best we can wherever we are," replied young Fulton, dryly.
"The saints themselves could do no more," said the Mexican.
Urrea was speaking in English, and his manner was so friendly and gentle
that the recruits crowded around him.
"When are we to be released? When do we get our parole?" they asked.
Urrea smiled and held up his hands. He was all sympathy and generosity.
"All your troubles will be over to-morrow," he said, "and it is fitting
that they should end on such a day, because it is Palm Sunday."
The recruits gave a cheer.
"Do we go down to the coast?" one of them asked.
Urrea smiled with his whole face, and with the gesture of his hands,
too. But he shook his head.
"I can say no more," he replied. "I am not the general, and perhaps I
have said too much already, but be assured, brave foes, that to-morrow
will end your troubles. You fought us gallantly. You fought against
great odds, and you have my sympathy.
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