They were wonderful men, these Americano soldiers, much taller than Filipinos or Spaniards, and many of them had blue eyes and hair of the color of gold. The pride of kings was in their stride, and they looked as though they feared nothing.
Farther on down the river at the Alhambra Café, where the Spanish officers once gathered to hear the music of Spain, the orchestra played a new air that delighted her. There was a burst of cheering. The music was “Dixie,” and the demonstration was made by some Tennessee volunteers, who always gave something reminiscent of the old “rebel yell” whenever they heard it. From the Cuartel Infanteria, across the river, the American bugles began to shrill a “tattoo.” Their music was wonderful—everything pertaining to these big, bold men was wonderful, she thought.
Something bumped against a side of the casco, and Simplicia hurried over to order away a supposed ladrone. She leaned over the side with such abruptness that the wooden comb slipped from her heavy mass of black hair. It fell a dusky curtain, and brushed the upturned face of a man. He was not a little brown Filipino, but a tall Americano, fair and yellow-haired. He laughed a soft, pleasant laugh. She drew herself backward with a frightened cry, but his eyes held hers. The man was standing in a small canoe, steadying his craft by holding on to the casco.
“Buenas noches,” he said, smiling. He spoke Spanish, but not like a Spaniard or a Tagalo. Simplicia smiled, faintly. She knew that she should go into the nipa cabin, but this handsome man looked so kind and—Ramon was a fool. And her father and brothers were selfish, and——
So Simplicia returned the salutation, and stood leaning over the bulwark tasting the delirious delight of her first flirtation. The man—he was a college boy until the United States Government gave him a suit of khaki and the right to bear the former designation—thrilled with joy at the delicious novelty of the situation. He was in a city that was at once the tropics and the Orient, and over which hung the glamour of departed mediæval days. For several hundred years guitars had tinkled on that river, and voices had been lifted to laticed windows. The air was laden with ghosts of everything but common sense and scruples.
A bugle across the river caused the man to recollect that he was under certain restraint. “I must go,” he said, but he did not release his hold on the casco.
Simplicia’s eyes were big and bright in the moonlight. He stretched out one arm and drew her face toward him. She tore herself away, and stood breathing hurriedly through parted lips.
“Mañana por la noche,” said the soldier. He plied the paddle vigorously, and the canoe glided away. But he looked back, longingly, for Simplicia’s lips were very soft and warm.
She stood gazing after him till the canoe vanished into the shadow of the Cuartel Infanteria. The unseen bugle softly wailed “taps,” the call that bids the soldier rest. It is also sounded over graves.