“It’s for me,” he says, and they stop.
By this time they are near to the wall of the little cemetery that surrounds the tower, and to avoid being seen they wait under its dark shelter.
There is a period of suspense in which neither speaks, but after a while they see the black-coated prisoners form into file, with their yellow-clothed guard on either side, and march out of their compound.
“They’ve given me up,” says Oskar, and they both breathe freely.
They hear the word of command, deadened by distance. Then they see the procession of men pass down the avenue and through the big outer gates into the high road. At first there is only the dull thud of many feet on the hard ground, but as the guards close the gates behind them, and the sharp clang of the iron hasps comes up through the still air, the prisoners break into a cheer.
It is wild, broken, irregular cheering, as of fierce disdain, and it is followed by defiant singing—
“Glo-ry to the brave men of old,
Their sons will copy their virtues bold,
Courage in heart and a sword in hand....”
A few minutes later the dark figures are hidden by trees, and as they turn the corner of the road by Kirk Patrick their voices die away.