“All my songs are sad,” she said.
“Never mind,” said her companions, and without more urging she took the harp and sang in a rich and vibrant voice, full of feeling.
The chant ceased, the harp became mute; yet no one applauded; they seemed listening still. The young girls felt their eyes fill with tears; Ibarra seemed disturbed; the helmsman, motionless, was gazing far away.
Suddenly there came a crash like thunder. The women cried out and stopped their ears. It was Albino, filling with all the force of his lungs the carabao’s horn. There needed nothing more to bring back laughter, and dry tears.
“Do you wish to make us deaf, pagan?” cried Aunt Isabel.
“Señora,” he replied, “I’ve heard of a poor trumpeter who, from simply playing on his instrument, became the husband of a rich and noble lady.”
“So he did—the Trumpeter of Säckingen!” laughed Ibarra.
“Well,” said Albino, “we shall see if I am as happy!” and he began to blow again with still more force. There was a panic: the mamas attacked him hand and foot.
“Ouch! ouch!” he cried, rubbing his hurts; “the Philippines are far from the borders of the Rhine! For the same deed one is knighted, another put in the san-benito!”
At last Andeng announced the kettle ready for the fish.