The window of Hector's den commanded a view of the married officers' quarters, and of the back door of MacFarlane's house, which was nearest.
It was a sunny afternoon, peaceful as a dream, undisturbed by any sound other than the buzz of flies and the distant thump of a football from the recreation field. Suddenly this peace was broken by a guitar, playing softly, lightly, a gay fragment of tune. The music was pleasant, as it emphasized the calm of the afternoon.
Hector put down his book. Only one man in the division played the guitar—the Marquis, newly out of the cells. He had taken his stand outside the window of Mrs. MacFarlane's kitchen.
Presently the music swung into a jolly little Spanish tune and the Marquis, very softly, in his rich voice, began to sing a ridiculous composition of his own:
Senor-ee-ta, Senor-ee-ta—
Caramba, you surely look sweet-a!
When you wink-a like dat—Pecadillo! My hat!—
You mak-a my heart-a go pit-a-pit-pat!
Senor-ee-ta, Carmin-ee-ta,
I tell you we got-a to meet-a!
I'll be mit you tonight in da moon of de light,
Tomato—staccato-Ta-Ta! (The guitar:) Pom-pom-pom!
"The idiot!" Hector thought. But he could not help smiling.
The Marquis waltzed on. Then, for a moment, came silence.
Presently Hector heard a gentle tapping on the kitchen window and the voice of the Marquis, plaintively:
"Oh, Al-ice! I'm waiting!"
Alice was MacFarlane's fairly pretty and decidedly buxom cook.