"The stars so brightly shine, But ah, those stars of thine! Are none like yours, _Bonita_, Beyond the ocean brine." And then I seem to see the big captain--"Foxy grandpa"--beating the bass drum like that extraordinary man that Mark Twain tells about, "who hadn't a tooth in his whole head." I can remember how Don Julian, the crusty Spaniard, animated with the spirit of old Capulet, stood on the chair and shouted, "_Viva los Americanos!_"--and the palm-grove, like a room of many pillars, lighted by Chinese lanterns. It was a time of magic moonlight, when the sea broke on the sands in phosphorescent lines in front of the _kiosko_. Far out on the horizon lights of fishing-boats would glimmer, and the dusky shores of Siquijor or the volcanic isle of Camaguin loomed in the distance. Here there were little cities as completely isolated though they were parts of another planet, where the "other" people worked and played, and promenaded to the strumming of guitars. And in the background rose the triple range of mountains, cold, mysterious, and blue in the transfiguring moonlight. The little army girl, like some fair goddess of the night, monopolized the masculine attention at the ball. When she appeared upon the floor, all others, as by mutual consent, retired, and left the field to her alone. The "Pearls of Lobuc," who refused to come until a carriage was sent after them, appeared in delicate gauze dresses, creamy stockings, and white slippers. And "The Princess of the Philippines," Diega, with her saucy pompadour, forgot that it was time to drop your hand at the conclusion of the dance. Our noble Ichabod was there in a tight-fitting suit of black and narrow trousers, fervently discussing with the French constabulary man whether a frock was a Prince Albert. Paradies capered mincingly to the quick music of the waltz, and the old maid, unable to restrain herself, kept begging the doctor--who did not know how to dance--only to try a two-step with her, please. And the poor doctor, in his agony, had sweated out another clean white uniform. I had almost forgotten Maraquita and the _zapatillas_ with the pearl rosettes. She was a little queen in pink-and-white, and ere the night was over she had given me her "_sing sing_" (ring) and fan, and told me that I could "ask papa" if I wanted to. The next day she was just as pretty in light-blue and green, and with her hair unbound. She poked her toes into a pair of gold-embroidered sandals, and seemed very much embarrassed at my presence. This was explained when, later in the day, her uncle asked me for Miss Maraquita's ring. Although the cook and the _muchachos_ ate the greater part of the refreshments, and a heart or two was broken incidentally, the Oroquieta ball passed into history as being the most brilliant function of its kind that ever had been witnessed at the post.