“_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. * * * * * The sun beat down fiercely on the Pasig. Canoes toiled up and skimmed down the river. Lumbering _cascos_, their crews naked to their waists, were poled painfully along. The Quiapo Market was astir with a babble of tongues, the barking of dogs, and the incessant challenge of hundreds of game-cocks. The little brown people bought, sold, and bargained with the full strength of their lungs. Simplicia, as purser of the _casco_, was in the market purchasing provisions, but she spent most of her time near the stall of a Chinese vender of fabrics. After much haggling, she became the possessor of a dainty bodice of silk and piña cloth. Most of the girls who visited the market-place seemed to be drawn to that spot, for there Simplicia met a friend who had left the lake country a little later than herself. “Ramon will come down the river to-night,” said the friend, breathlessly, delighted to carry a message of that sort. “He has written something that he thinks they may print in _La Libertad_. Isn’t that wonderful? You must feel so proud of him. For a man to be able to write at all is wonderful--but for the papers!”