The _plunk-plunk_ of a guitar close by startled them both. Simplicia trembled violently. “It is a foolish man who is always singing to me,” she explained. A clear, musical voice rose in a song, and the soldier checked a question to listen, for the voice and the song charmed him from the first note. The song was in Spanish, and, though he was by no means perfect in the language, he caught the meaning and spirit of it. It ran something to this effect: Bright are the leaves and the blossoms that grow in the beautiful lake country, They fill the place with brilliance of things celestial. Some of them drop or are thrown to the river, Helpless they drift on its swift running surface. Down past the city through sliminess foul, Out they are whirled to waters eternal Lost and forgotten forever and ever. Blossom I cherish; I’ll hold thee. Never shalt thou leave the lake country. 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. “But you will wait and think of me always.” “Yes, I will watch the leaves on the river----” She shuddered. “No! no! Do not speak of them. _Madre de Dios!_ I hate the river, and I hate the leaves it drags along. I think I hate everything but you.” The soldier was young, and this was his first experience with hysteria and woman, which combination often disturbs even wiser heads. It disturbed him exceedingly, but he soothed her finally with the wildest vows and many kisses. He kissed a tress of her long hair as he stepped from the _casco’s_ poling platform into his canoe.