!" said Portilla hopelessly, and Garay also spoke
words of grief. But Urrea, although younger and lower in rank, was firm,
even exultant. His aggressive will dominated the others, and his
assertion that the wrath of Santa Anna was terrible was no vain warning.
The others began to look upon him as Santa Anna's messenger, the
guardian of his thunderbolts, and they did not dare to meet his eye.

"We will go outside and talk about it," said Portilla, still much
agitated.

When they left the patio their steps inevitably took them toward the
church. 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. 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 trou