A boy from Kentucky had brought a flute with him which the Mexicans had permitted him to retain.
Now sitting in Turkish fashion in the center of the floor he was playing: "Home, Sweet Home." Either he played well or their situation deepened to an extraordinary pitch the haunting quality of the air.
Despite every effort tears rose to Ned's eyes.

Others made no attempt to hide theirs.

Why should they?
They were but inexperienced boys in prison, many hundreds of miles from the places where they were born.
They sang to the air of the flute, and all through the evening they sang that and other songs.

They were happier than they had been in many days.
Ned alone was gloomy and silent.

Knowing that Santa Anna was now the fountain head of all things Mexican he could not yet trust..