"Other voices took it up:
'Land where my fathers died,
Land of the Pilgrims' pride——'
"The quivering, quavering chorus, punctuated by groans and made spasmodic by pain, trembled up from that little group of wounded Americans in the midst of the Cuban solitude—the pluckiest, most heartfelt song that human beings ever sang. There was one voice that did not quite keep up with the others. It was so weak that I did not hear it until all the rest had finished with the line:
'Let Freedom ring.'
"Then, halting, struggling, faint, it repeated slowly:
'Land—of—the—Pilgrims'—pride,
Let Freedom——'
"The last word was a woeful cry. One more son had died as died the fathers."
There was a moment's pause when Grandma Elsie had finished reading, and there were tears in the eyes of many of her hearers.
It was Harold who broke the silence.