“Come on, you dogs!” rang Frank’s clear voice. “Come on yourself, Felipe Dulzura, you treacherous cur! Why do you keep out of reach and urge your little beasts on?”
The Spaniard uttered an oath in his own language.
“Close in! Close in!” he directed. “Press him from all sides! Don’t let one man beat you off like that!”
“You seem to be taking good care of your own precious hide,” half laughed Frank. Then, as the opportunity presented, he made a sudden rush and reached Dulzura with a crack of the staff that caused the fellow to howl and stagger.
It did not seem, however, that, armed only with that stick, Merry could long contend against such odds. Soon something must happen. Soon one of those little wretches would find the opportunity to come in and strike swift and sure with a glittering knife.
The racket and uproar of the conflict startled the echoes of the mission building, and in that peaceful, dreamy spot such sounds seemed most appalling. Frank knew the end must come. Had he possessed a pistol he might have triumphed over them all in spite of the odds.
Suddenly in the distance, from far down the trail toward the valley, came the sound of singing. As it reached Merry’s ears he started in the utmost amazement, for he knew that tune. Many a time had he joined in singing it in the old days. Although the words were not distinguishable at first, he could follow them by the sound of the tune. This is the stanza the unseen singers voiced:
“Deep in our hearts we hold the love
Of one dear spot by vale and hill;
We’ll not forget while life may last