But my heart, it is sad for the leaves on the Pasig.
The last words died on the air like the sob or the faint cry of a passing spirit. The soldier sat mute, like one bewitched by fairy music. Simplicia’s lips, pressed against his cheek, brought him back to her.
“I do not care for him. On my soul, I do not!” she whispered. She was pretty, and her arm tightened coaxingly about his neck. His better nature was conquered, and the devil in his blood reigned supreme. The situation suddenly seemed highly amusing, and he laughed a suppressed laugh of recklessness. To be serenaded by a native poet while the arm of the troubadour’s lady-love encircled his neck—verily he would have a great tale to tell some day.
There was a faint sound of a footfall on the deck of the casco. The soldier disengaged himself. A face peeped in through an opening in the thatch, and the American struck it a sharp blow with his fist. He would have rushed after the intruder, but Simplicia held him.
“It is only a foolish man,” she said, “do not follow him. It would make trouble.”
“I would not bring you any trouble,” he said. “What is the matter? You tremble.”
“It is nothing,” she replied. “I love you.”
The soldier’s conscience smote him. He swore that he loved her, and tried to believe that it was true. She seemed almost happy again.
“To-morrow the casco goes up to the lake again, and we will be gone three days. Oh, that is so long!”
“Very long,” he assented.