This protest, however, was overruled so she held back no longer.

Taking the harp, she played a short prelude and then sang in a harmonious and vibrating voice full of feeling: Sweet are the hours in one's native land, Where all is dear the sunbeams bless; Life-giving breezes sweep the strand, And death is soften'd by love's caress.
Warm kisses play on mother's lips, On her fond, tender breast awaking; When round her neck the soft arm slips, And bright eyes smile, all love partaking.
Sweet is death for one's native land, Where all is dear the sunbeams bless; Dead is the breeze that sweeps the strand, Without a mother, home, or love's caress.
The song ceased, the voice died away, the harp became silent, and they still listened; no one applauded.

The young women felt their eyes fill with tears, and Ibarra seemed to be unpleasantly affected.

The youthful pilot stared motionless into the distance.
Suddenly a thundering roar was heard, such that the women screamed and covered their ears; it was the ex-theological student blowing with all the strength of his lungs on the _tambuli_, or carabao horn.

Laughter and cheerfulness returned while tear-dimmed eyes brightened.