“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 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.”

Ned had said no more.  He was looking at Urrea intently.  He was trying, with all the power of his own mind and soul, to read this man’s mind and soul.  He was trying to pierce through that Spanish armor of smiles and gestures and silky tones and see what lay beneath.  He sought to read the real meaning of all these polite phrases.  His long and powerful gaze finally drew Urrea’s own.