It was the national hymn.
Antonia and Isabel knew it.

Every word beat upon their hearts.

The power of association, the charm of a stately, fervent melody was upon them.
"It is Senor Higadillos who leads," whispered Isabel, as a resonant voice, powerful and sweet, cried-- "O list to the summons! The blood of our sires, Boils high in our veins, and to vengeance inspires! Who bows to the yoke?
who bends to the blow ?" and, without a moment's hesitation, the answer came in a chorus of enthusiastic cadences-- "No hero will bend, no Mexican bow; Our country in tears sends her sons to the fight, To conquer, or die, for our land and our right." "You see, the Mexicans think THEY are in the right--THEY are patriots also, Antonia." The sorrowful girl spoke like a puzzled child, fretfully and uncertainly, and Antonia led her silently away.

What could she answer?
And when she remembered the dear fugitive, riding alone through the midnight--riding now for life and liberty--she could not help the uprising again of that cold benumbing question--"Is it worth while ?".